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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512042">Break On Through</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings'>Castielslostwings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(not Dean/Cas), (not between dean and cas), Alternate Universe - Prison, Beach House, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapters are tagged individually and with more detail, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Free Will, Gay Sex, M/M, Murder Mystery, Prison, Prisoner Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychologist Castiel (Supernatural), Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Self-Acceptance, Sex Worker Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Smart Dean Winchester, Switching, Therapist Castiel (Supernatural), Walks On The Beach, mob boss Crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:20:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>136,730</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512042</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Prison psychologist Castiel Novak was brought to the Bay for one reason and one reason only: to crack and dismantle the ruling mob cabal that's making life Hell behind bars for both inmates and staff alike. Prison politics, handshake deals, blackmail, and manipulation are only the beginning, although everything seems to circle back to one man—an innocuous sex worker named Dean Winchester. In the midst of doing his job, Castiel himself finds sucked into a world he wasn't prepared for and falling hard for the prisoner at the very center of all the chaos. Is Dean a pawn or a player or something else altogether? And what will Castiel risk giving up to find out?</p><p>At the end of the day, Castiel's not the one behind bars, but he can't bring himself to leave—at least, not without Dean by his side. <i>Whatever</i> it takes to keep him there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1252</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Fatback Multiverse Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Oh, hello. Welcome to my new WIP! I know this seems sort of dark, but at its core this is story about freedom, self-discovery, self-acceptance, LOVE, and being the badass you were always meant to be.</p><p>This is the inspo song: <a href="https://youtu.be/HTdKfd4q8qc">Something Better by Minke</a></p><p>Updates will be regular, I don't abandon fics. I am, however, really writing for myself right now and trying to get back to loving it, so please be patient and fluff my ego. This is not going to be a quick one--it's a slow burn with major payoff. I did gank a couple of storylines from Wentworth, so if you like Franky/Bridget, buckle up and enjoy! And if you have no clue what I'm talking about, no worries, you don't need to! </p><p>Notes about the content and tags:<br/>--&gt;The DubCon/Rape tag is because Dean is essentially being forced into sex work, as Crowley is leveraging Sam's safety over him. *Dean* does not initially view this as rape or even dubcon, but it certainly is. The scenes are not ultra-graphic, but they are there. You will be in Dean's mind about this issue as he experiences and processes it.<br/>--&gt;there is NO DUBCON OR RAPE BETWEEN DEAN AND CAS! Never, ever. Not even institutional. While they both will have sexual thoughts and feelings about each other eventually, Cas is VERY aware of the inherent power dynamics between him and a prisoner. Cas is a GOOD man. They will NOT have sex until Dean is free. They may kiss and they will def get turned on and probably get themselves off, tho. I ain't got that much self-restraint and this is an explicit fic, sorry not sorry.<br/>--&gt;if I missed a tag or a warning, please let me know, i will add it. I will tag very carefully as I post. If you want to see how I do that in advance, browse the chapter notes for "Fire &amp; Ice." I'm not going to put all the explicit sex (i.e. "rimming," etc) tags for D/C in the main tag section, but I will put them in relevant chapters.</p><p>--&gt;CHAPTER WARNINGS for this time: brief Dean/Benny (dubcon), unintentional voyeurism (cas walks in on them) discussion of prison dynamics, attempted seduction (dean/cas), brief casturbation.</p><p>Thank you immensely to saltnhalo, EllenofOz, and Hectatess, and coinofstone, who helped me sort this out so it was a lot more readable, especially Ellen who really helped me cut and move around some things that were not working. The fic community is only as good as our support systems, and I'm so, so grateful for mine.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>The first time Castiel catches sight of Dean Winchester, it’s a bit of a shock to the system. One minute he’s walking down the stark, gray halls of Bay State Penitentiary, mentally reviewing the little information he’s absorbed about the man who never showed up for his intake appointment. The next, he’s rounding a corner, wandering headlong into a scene not often stumbled upon outside the context of a porn set.</p><p>Castiel would know, he has a cousin who does that sort of thing.</p><p>And while he wasn’t expecting to encounter it at <em> work, </em> per se, he <em> should </em> have been better prepared. Or, at the very least, peripherally aware that this was a possibility, considering (first and foremost) that he <em> does </em>work inside of a prison. Also relevant here would be the reason why he was brought to Bay State at all, added in with everything he knows thus far regarding Inmate Number 05152008.</p><p>Like a responsible and clear-headed prison psychologist, he should have considered this scenario and made a plan in advance—lest the shock value of confronting it live and in person render him stupid and reactive. </p><p>
  <em> Oops. </em>
</p><p>On the one hand, Castiel is not in any way new to the graphic and often obscene nature of prison life. On the other, rounding the corner of an ordinary cellblock only to find his newest patient being throat-fucked by a man nearly twice his size is disconcerting, to say the least. </p><p>“Get off of him,” Castiel growls. Protective instinct takes over and he finds himself stepping into Winchester’s cell just far enough to yank at the back of the other inmate’s prison-issued orange top. “Put that away.” </p><p>Castiel doesn’t know what he expected to happen. An attempted punch to the face from the man brutalizing the smaller prisoner wouldn’t be remotely surprising, and Castiel is more than ready to duck (or lean over and smash the housing block’s panic button, if necessary). The offending prisoner’s quick retreat and Winchester’s resulting burst of anger, though—those things were certainly not anywhere near the top of Castiel’s guess list. </p><p>“What the fuck, man? Ever heard of knocking?” Dragging the back of his wrist roughly across the stretch of his wet mouth, Winchester glares up at Castiel with the ferocity and indignation of a much freer man. His green eyes flash, causing Castiel to stumble over his own response, but only for a second. After all, the cardinal rule of commanding authority in prison is to <em> always </em> do exactly that. No flinching, no faltering, or you’re cooked. Show no fear, no sign that you’re affected by anyone, and never<em>, ever </em>hesitate. </p><p>“This is prison, Winchester,” Castiel snaps back, just as soon as he’s gathered his wits. Despite his brave show, Castiel clutches his clipboard more tightly to his chest. As if that could protect him, should the other two men decide that they’re angry enough about being interrupted to risk a stint in AdSeg. “There’s no such thing as privacy here, and you are late for an appointment.” </p><p>Glancing over at the other inmate (who thankfully has pulled his elastic-waisted pants back over his dick and into place around his hips), Castiel clears his throat. He uses the built-in pause to read the name printed across the ID tag clipped jauntily between buttons on the man’s shirt. </p><p>“Lafitte,” Castiel muses out loud. He relaxes his grip on the clipboard, turning the first page of his Warden-provided info packet over. Running a finger down the alphabetically-organized names of all the inmates, he hums. “Lafitte, Benny. You don’t belong in this cellblock,” Castiel remarks, not exactly accusing. </p><p>Technically, Benny isn’t doing anything wrong. The minimum security prison they’re in is divided into housing blocks; six individual cells surrounding a common area, each block able to be barred and locked after curfew or during a lockdown. The shared inner space boasts a dining table and chairs, two couches, and a small kitchenette. All that plus a TV, coffee maker, snacks, even a small fridge—this prison is paradise compared to some of the institutions Castiel has worked inside. In fact, the relative freedoms these inmates possess are virtually unparalleled. While Benny may not be assigned to this particular housing unit, there’s no rule in place (or even a good reason) that he can’t visit.</p><p>“On my way out, Boss,” Benny says anyway, tipping the definitely-not-prison-issue cap he’s wearing before hurrying out of the cell almost apologetically. Castiel watches as he goes, surprised (but relieved) to not have a confrontation on his hands. </p><p>Perhaps this transfer <em> was </em> a good idea after all. Perhaps this “Club Fed” and its reportedly upscale criminal clientele are actually a different breed. Compared to the <em> very </em>broke and busted, just-crawled-out-of-the-sewers crowd filling the cells at Pontiac Correctional Center, anyway, otherwise known as the place where Castiel earned his reputation.</p><p>Either way, this prison set-up is much nicer than what Castiel is used to, and that’s not a small part of the reason he’s here. The structure seems to both keep the prisoners happier <em> and </em> serve the staff well—especially when the facility is forced to go into lockdown. The “family”-style housing blocks and individual bunks as cells encourage positive socialization <em> and </em>allow for more privacy than is typical. In Castiel’s experience, allowing prisoners who can handle it to have a bit of space and the ability to escape from their peers can be extremely helpful in defusing tension and rivalries. </p><p>More to the point, during free time, the prisoners <em> are </em> allowed to intermingle between blocks. And they’re allowed to be consensually intimate. On the other hand, prison violence is Castiel’s specialty, and he doesn't know any of these men well enough to be sure of what is consensual and what is not. Considering <em> why </em>Dean has been shortlisted to meet with him, Castiel is definitely not going to assume.</p><p>This isn’t his first rodeo walking in on a scene like this, either (<em>see: should have been better prepared)</em>. But he’s never been in such close quarters—<em>alone—</em>with someone so hostile as Dean Winchester in the aftermath.</p><p>When Castiel turns back around from watching Lafitte leave, Dean is <em> right </em>in his space, nearly nose-to-nose. His nostrils flare when Castiel stares back unflinchingly, only responding to Dean’s aggressive posturing by tipping his head slightly to one side. </p><p>“Is there something wrong, Dean?” he asks evenly, making a calculated choice to use the prisoner’s first name. “I won’t apologize for looking out for you. That man had you pinned—”</p><p>“That’s how he <em> likes </em>it, dumbass,” Dean fires back, finally stepping away in a huff and running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. Grumbling under his breath, Dean makes his way over to the sink in the corner of the room, picking up his toothbrush and loading it with toothpaste.</p><p>Castiel gives him the space to do his thing, but he observes Dean closely. Two passes with the toothbrush plus mouthwash, and a lot of grimacing. Not doing much to convince him that what he walked in on was consensual, that’s for sure. Castiel’s seen this particular routine more than once from a coerced prisoner, and not that it compares, but he’s done it himself with less-than-savory bar hookups. </p><p>“So, is Benny someone important to you?” Castiel prods, once Dean’s done spitting and wiping his face off. Predictably, Dean just grunts and shrugs, but Castiel isn’t so easily cast off. “I can write him up, Dean, if he was hurting you. You’re not—”</p><p>“Fuck!” Dean yells, making Castiel’s eyebrows go up and his feet fight to take a big step backward (he resists). “You don’t know what fresh hell you’re sticking your nose into, Doc,” Dean continues, more levelly this time. His expression turns hard as he advances on Castiel. “I get it. You’re the new guy in town, you want to wave your dick around. Probably fresh out of school with your expensive degree and your too-pretty-for-prison face, out to save the world and my ass.” Dean snorts, stopping just inside Castiel’s bubble of personal space, lip curling up in a sneer. </p><p>The irony of a magazine-handsome man like Dean making comments about someone being too attractive for prison does not escape Castiel.</p><p>“Let me be the first to say, welcome to the Bay. And also? <em> Fuck off. </em> You hear me? <em> Fuck </em> all the way off, before you mess with something you can’t fix. You got <em> no </em>idea what goes on in here, not yet. You’re damn lucky it was Benny, buddy, and so am I.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” Castiel replies, face carefully blank. He’s happy to let Dean believe that he has the upper hand here—though in fact, the prisoner’s words and body language are far too revealing for that to be the case. As tough as he likely sees himself as, Dean’s easily identifiable as insecure, fearful. All of that emotion is buried deeply, of course, stuffed far beneath a <em> heap </em>of frustration and anger. There’s so much more going on beneath Dean’s stormy surface than he’s keen to let on, and Castiel’s already decided to make it his mission to tease the entire mess out.</p><p>“Yeah, excuse you,” Dean agrees with a nod. “Excuse you for interrupting something that <em> I’m </em> still going to have to finish later. All you did was create more work for me, understand? You didn’t <em> save </em>me, didn’t do shit except guarantee that I’m going to sleep with a sore jaw tonight.” Dean rubs the joint just below his right ear, as if to make a point. Stepping back and collapsing down onto the twin bed that’s built into the side of the wall in a huff, Dean’s attitude changes abruptly, and he flashes a cocky grin. “Write me a script for the pain, Doc?” </p><p>“Well, I sincerely apologize for any problems my actions may have caused you,” Castiel tells him, ignoring the sarcastic request. He’s being sincere when he speaks—after all, Castiel didn’t come here to make trouble for anyone. Exactly the opposite, and he does need Dean to trust him if he’s going to have any shot at helping him out. </p><p>“Whatever,” Dean mumbles, tucking his hands behind his head, cushioning the back of it against the hard cinderblock wall. Meanwhile, his legs hang carelessly over the side of his cot. He’s the very picture of nonchalance, but Castiel sees right through him. “Can you get the fuck out now?” </p><p>“No,” Castiel says calmly, pulling out Dean’s desk chair and taking a seat, however uninvited. “But you already knew that. Just like you knew we had an appointment. Dean,” Castiel asks carefully, folding one leg over the other and taking notice to the way Dean’s eyes linger on his thighs. “Did you intend for me to find you with Mr. Lafitte?” </p><p>Across from him, Dean’s eyes go wide and he bolts upright, looking alarmed. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses, darting anxiously over to the door as quick as can be. Sticking his head out, Dean hastily scans the common area for eavesdroppers before breathing an apparent sigh of relief. When he comes back inside, he pulls the door closed behind him. Castiel shouldn’t allow it—that’s Prison Safety 101—but his instincts tell him that Dean isn’t a threat—<em>to him, </em>at least. He certainly has the muscle and stature to be considered objectively intimidating.</p><p>Castiel’s no slouch in that department, either, but Dean is what they call<em> prison-jacked</em>. Boredom, restlessness, lack of other productive things to do, combined with the need to stay in shape and protect oneself—it’s motivation that Castiel and his set of free-weights that live next to his cushy bed lack.</p><p>“You can’t <em> say </em>shit like that, dude. You can’t—” Cutting himself off, Dean runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Dean’s reaction is a strong one for someone the sentiment didn’t resonate with, but Castiel knows when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. He stands and smooths down his outfit. </p><p>“Thursday,” he tells Dean sternly, pointing one finger in the direction of his chest. “My office, two p.m. Your appointments with me are mandatory, if you’d like to retain your privileges.” </p><p>To his surprise, Dean’s face changes as Castiel attempts to move past him, openly looking his body up and down. “Anxious to get me alone, Doc? Heard through the grapevine about what the prison slut will do for anyone that Crowley owes a favor? That what this is about? Hey, baby, you don’t need to call me down to the Principal’s office to snag a piece. Gonna need to see the menu, or—?” Licking his lips, Dean crowds him against the cool cement wall, letting his hand drift down to Castiel’s hip where it curls possessively. </p><p>Taken aback, Castiel is slower to react than he’d like, but he manages before things get entirely out of control. Grabbing Dean’s wrist, Castiel flips their positions quickly, shoving Dean up against the wall with his hand held fast next to his shoulder. Dean just smirks, like he expected this turn of events. Perhaps he did. </p><p>“What are you playing at, Dean?” Castiel growls.</p><p>Dean’s sharp smile never wavers, though his eyes have glassed over, like he’s ready to disappear into his own head. “Hey,” he says with a shrug. “If you’re not into it, that’s cool. Just don’t be telling Crowley that I didn’t deliver.” </p><p>Narrowing his eyes, Castiel releases Dean’s wrist and backs away, this time towards the door. He should write Dean up, but the strange note of pleading in his voice has Castiel choosing to give him a pass. With any luck, he won’t regret it. </p><p>He keeps his back to the door, though, this time. He’s not afraid, but he’s also wholly uninterested in giving Dean <em> any </em>ambiguous signals at this point. “I do not sleep with my patients,” Castiel says.</p><p>“Pity,” Dean replies as he turns around, rubbing his lightly-scraped cheek with the tips of two fingers. His other hand drifts almost seductively over the fabric covering his groin. “You’re actually hot, you shower, you probably aren’t gonna give me an STI.” Dean shrugs carelessly before heading back to his bed and falling down on it. Splayed on his back, Dean’s legs fall open softly, a clear invitation that Castiel just blinks at, as blankly as possible. “Whatever. See you Thursday, sunshine.” </p><p>Castiel leaves Dean’s cell knowing full-well that he’s violated his own first rule of working in a prison in a <em> big </em> way, but anxious to see Dean again all the same. That feeling isn’t entirely professional, but that isn’t a new concept for him, either. The truth is, Castiel’s never been able to figure out how to keep from becoming emotionally invested in his charges. To many of his coworkers (and even his superiors), that particular weakness is a greater liability, a bigger betrayal than if he <em> was </em>the type of person who used his power position to sleep with men who can’t legally or ethically consent. </p><p>No one’s ever accused the people running the U.S.’s prison industrial complex of being the good guys, though. The whole system is rife with corruption, coercion, pro-profit sentencing, and virtual slave labor. Castiel knows all of those things, but these people—the <em> inmates</em>, not the brass—need him, and all he wants to do is <em> help.  </em></p><p>Which is why he spends the remainder of his afternoon locked away in his office, poring over Dean’s file. Castiel greedily inhales every piece of information and history that he can find on the man, no matter how small. The rundown he received from the Warden was well-substantiated by his own in-person interaction with Dean, and everything in his file seems to corroborate her suspicions. </p><p>The Warden, a stern but well-meaning woman named Naomi, recruited Castiel specifically to break up a problematic crime syndicate ring that’s formed inside her prison. A mob boss, here on a plea deal for lesser charges, has essentially orchestrated to have all of his right-hand men locked up with him for the duration of his stay. With the man himself boasting seemingly endless useful connections both on the inside and out, Naomi’s fighting a losing battle, here at the Bay. The way she tells it, Castiel is her last hope of maintaining any semblance of order and authority over this place.</p><p>Castiel pauses in his perusal of Dean’s file, shifting it to the side in favor of another marked, “Fergus Crowley.” <em> Crowley—</em>the alleged mob boss in question, and the same man Dean mentioned today. Sipping his lukewarm coffee, Castiel reads through information he’s skimmed at least three times already. This go-round, perhaps—now that he has context—he’ll pick up something more informative about <em> Dean, </em>and how he fits into this mess.</p><p>Between the file and the mental notes Castiel gleaned from Naomi, Castiel knows that upon his initial arrival, <em> Fergus Crowley </em>swiftly challenged the existing Top Dog for his title. </p><p>(“Top Dog” is exactly what it sounds like—this is the prisoner that the other inmates collectively accept as their leader, someone they look to for unofficial structure and any rules expected from them on the inside. Different leaders might tow different philosophies; Castiel’s seen everything from anti-drug Top Dogs to drug-trafficking Top Dogs, even one who tried to run a direct-sales pyramid scheme from behind bars.</p><p>He didn’t last very long, shiv-carving skills or no.)</p><p>It’s interesting to Castiel that Crowley felt so confident in attempting his coup on day one—Top Dogs don’t become such because they’re pushovers, or easy to topple. </p><p>It’s just that Crowley’s modus operandi (via his charges and his behavior <em> since </em> that first day) reads as mostly manipulative, not hands-on. He seems... <em> bureaucratic, </em> more than he does violent, like he belongs on Naomi’s side of the bars, really. On the other hand, Castiel does know that appearances can be deceiving, especially when it comes to lock-up. And Crowley <em> was </em>successful in his bid.</p><p>After that, just when Naomi was hoping things would begin to settle, along came Dean. An apparent unrepentant sex worker who waited not even one day after arriving at the Bay to get up to his old tricks, pun intended. Naomi wasn’t used to that type of person in her prison—this is the sort of place white-collar criminals go; insider traders and tax evaders. Dean, by all accounts, didn’t belong. Even the notes in his file suggest that no one quite understood why he was sent <em> here, </em>but the judge’s orders were very clear.</p><p>Regardless, that was Naomi’s breaking point, and what drove her to headhunt and subsequently recruit Castiel. He considers that now, flipping through Dean’s court paperwork and frowning. It seems likely that Naomi may care as much about simply getting rid of “the Dean problem,” as she does the entire situation with Crowley, and that sits rather uncomfortably with Castiel.</p><p>On a personal level, Naomi clearly hates Dean for what he represents. Perhaps she feels her prison is above hosting criminals like him, Castiel isn’t sure. What is definitive is that she’s not bothered to suss out whether Dean might actually be a victim—someone whose strings Crowley is pulling—rather than the thug she so badly wants him to be. He won’t make the same mistake. </p><p>Because either way, Castiel has been brought in to unpack and dismantle the entire cabal. To find (read: manufacture, if necessary) an airtight reason to put Crowley into the protection unit for the remainder of his stay, if possible. For Naomi, Dean as a <em> person </em>was quite the afterthought, a symptom of the problem, if anything at all. Just another one of Crowley’s misled sycophants.</p><p>What was it that she had labeled him? Castiel scans his handwritten notes from their conversation—<em>right. </em></p><p>
  <em> The prison slut.  </em>
</p><p>That’s what Dean called himself, as well. Official file seems to affirm: Dean was picked up on a known problematic streetcorner by an undercover badge. He was charged with several low-level crimes, including soliciting sex. Unable to make bail, he’s now locked up pending his trial, which has already been pushed three times for arbitrary reasons. One of which seems to include having the misfortune of being assigned a disinterested public defender. </p><p>Naomi is right about one thing—Dean <em> doesn’t </em>belong.</p><p>And yet, he’s here—presumably because Crowley wants him that way—but that doesn’t automatically make Dean <em> one of them</em>.</p><p>From everything he’s seen so far, Castiel’s increasingly convinced that Dean is not. That in this respect, Naomi is flat-out wrong. If his own suspicions are correct, Dean is not only a victim, he’s a <em> symptom </em> of the problem—perhaps even the key to unraveling it. </p><p>Castiel strokes his scruffy chin and reviews Dean’s intake stats. He’s healthy, <em> strong. </em> And yet, despite that muscled physique, Dean <em> isn’t </em> one of Crowley’s bodyguards or enforcers. It’s also plain to see from the way Dean talks about the man that his loyalty is either bought or coerced, not genuine. Most importantly of all, Dean <em> visibly </em>hates what Crowley is putting him through. </p><p>The way Dean acts simply doesn’t track with being a willing minion. It seems far more likely that Crowley has something on him, that he’s holding some form of leverage over Dean’s head. If that’s true, then it’s also Castiel’s job to find out what that leverage is, and remove it from Crowley’s grasp. That mission isn’t anything Naomi cares about or is paying him for—that’s Castiel’s own code of ethics refusing to leave him be.</p><p>He’ll need Dean’s cooperation to figure it all out, of course. And <em> that </em> is the real wildcard here—Dean himself. <em> What does Dean want, at the end of the day? What does he care about? </em></p><p>Sighing and rolling his neck until it cracks, Castiel flips Crowley’s folder shut and tosses it to the side. He sits back in his cushioned leather chair and grimaces at the developing ache in his back. He taps the end of his pen against his lips and surveys the paper-strewn mess he’s made of his desk. Dean’s history, his crimes, all the details of his life are spread out in one-dimension, detailed coldly and dispassionately on various legal forms and copy paper.</p><p>A black and white mugshot of Dean giving the camera his best Blue Steel stares up at Castiel, almost daring him to try and crack his carefully-constructed facade. </p><p>“Who are you, Dean?” Castiel wonders out loud. “How did you get here?” </p><p>
  <em> How did you become this, and how can I help you find your way out? </em>
</p><p>All good things in time.</p><p>***</p><p>Exiting the prison’s lobby after the workday is through never fails to make Castiel react in the same clichéd fashion. A brief pause, closing his eyes as he turns his face to the sky. It’s usually against the slowly-dipping sun, though tonight it’s rain. A thankful exhale comes next, followed by a deep, lung-filling breath of fresh, clean air and the unmistakable scent of freedom. </p><p>There is no doubt to anyone who’s spent time inside—whether prisoner or staff—<em>freedom </em>absolutely has a smell, on top of a feeling. </p><p>Castiel inhales it all greedily. He stands in front of the lobby doors for a moment too long until he nearly gets bowled over by a pair of officers in more of a rush than him to get home. “Sorry,” he murmurs as they laugh and nudge at each other, clearly mocking him. Somewhat longingly, Castiel watches as the duo crosses the parking lot to join a clump of several other guards gathered together between their vehicles. Even with the distance, Castiel can hear them joking and making plans to meet up at the bar down the street. </p><p>No one besides the Warden has made even a cursory effort to get to know him yet, though it’s only been a week since Castiel’s first day at the Bay. To be fair, he’s spent most of that time in meetings with Naomi, buried up to his neck in files, and/or observing the prisoners’ behavior from the security camera monitoring room. The guard who has been assigned there each time Castiel’s been down—Garth—is friendly, at least. Almost <em> too </em> friendly, chattering on about everything under the sun until Castiel’s ears feel like they <em> must </em>be hot to the touch while he nods politely and jots down notes about what he sees on the CCTV screens. </p><p>Speak of the devil—Garth appears from behind Castiel, waving enthusiastically before joining the raucous group in the middle of the lot. Feeling awkward, Castiel hesitates before walking over to his motorcycle, fiddling with the helmet in his hands for a moment while he wonders if <em> he </em>should be the one to make the first attempt at friendly connection. </p><p>Ultimately, he loses his nerve, shoving the helmet down onto his head and stomping the motorcycle’s engine to life. After a brief glance over his shoulder (and several satisfyingly surprised expressions staring back), Castiel does a tight one-eighty out of his parking space and roars away.</p><p>The wind rushing against him feels nice. Refreshing after his day inside, his plastic visor repelling the soft rain well enough that Castiel arrives home with very little issue, despite the suboptimal riding weather. The coastal town that houses Bay State Penitentiary on its rocky peninsula isn’t exactly sprawling, so it’s not even a five-minute jaunt, no matter how much Castiel tries to draw it out. Not that anyone could blame him—the weather here is temperate for mid-fall: cool, but still entirely pleasant to spend time outdoors.</p><p>Pointedly, it’s <em> much </em> more welcoming than the unforgiving harshness of the Illinois winters Castiel’s recently left behind—<em>and good riddance to that. </em>Frost and cutting chill cropping up by mid-October is what he’s long-accustomed to, and the way that nasty weather creeps in without warning or mercy, sinking into creaking window frames and everyone’s bones. </p><p>Here, with the tang of salt air on his tongue, the fresh scent of the sea breeze in his face, the kinder location that’s decidedly farther south—well. Winter’s sneaky tendrils seem to have been severed at the source, at least temporarily. Castiel will take whatever reprieve he can get. Most of his evenings have thus been spent walking the beach or running the modest boardwalk, even if the majority of seasonal shops have been closed and shuttered by now. He’s not looking forward to the day that it becomes too cold to do the few things he’s come to enjoy in this place. </p><p>It doesn’t help ease Castiel’s impending cabin fever that his current accommodations make the word “modest” seem extravagant. He supposes his first mistake was having trucked all the way here in a rented Enterprise moving van with everything he owns barely taking up half the available space in the back. His second was fatal, and that was assuming that he could find housing <em> after </em>he’d arrived. </p><p>Staying in a local motel had always been a temporary plan, a holdover until he found something better. Unfortunately, the housing market in this little oceanside town turned out to be its own entire disaster. Everything was and is either <em> way </em>out of his budget—being prime beachfront (or close to it) real estate, a rich vacationer’s dream—or the exact opposite. </p><p>Naturally, it’s the latter set that fall into his identified safe price range.</p><p>Of those, the places Castiel has toured so far have all turned out to be rundown shacks that aren’t even remotely livable. Rotting floors and stripped wiring, previously flooded lower levels infested with mold. Kitchens straight out of the fifties, <em> bugs,</em> and bathrooms that would make a highway gas station feel like a suite at the Ritz. <em> Great </em>finds for an investor looking to flip, or a handy sort of person scouting for a DIY project that will pay off in the long-run. Perhaps as a weekend retreat or rental income once renovations are done. </p><p>Not so great if you’re Castiel, a single man with a full-time job and an only-slightly-above-average salary, looking for an affordable, turnkey home. </p><p>Supposedly, most of the guards and adjunct prison staff live in apartment complexes or condos less than a half-hour drive outside the little shore town for this very reason. Castiel floated that option briefly, but his lack of reliable (read: enclosed) transportation when the weather <em> does </em>inevitably turn harsh has him balking at that. It wouldn’t due to have an emergency crop up at the Bay during a snowstorm and Castiel with only his motorcycle to get him there. </p><p>At least where he’s staying right now, he could walk to the prison—easily, in fact—if he truly wanted or needed to do so. Absently, Castiel turns all of this over in his mind as his drive comes to a close. True, his current residence is small and come winter, will almost certainly make him feel as if the walls are closing in. All the same, a better option has yet to present itself.</p><p>Leaning into the turn that takes him over a small speedbump and into the motel’s near-empty parking lot, Castiel brings his bike to a smooth stop in front of his humble abode. To be fair, the motel is quite nice, for what it is. Comfortably equipped and with a negotiated monthly rate that’s easy on his wallet, Castiel could be doing far worse. </p><p>At the very least, he can use this interlude to save up for something nicer. It’s his own fault for not investigating the options prior to moving, anyway. If he had, Castiel would definitely have noticed the wacky financial dynamic the town boasts. A mix of elites who could care less about the intimidating cement eyesore down the road, combined with a smattering of near-condemned buildings that the working-class has been priced out of being able to afford. Strange, but Castiel supposes that’s textbook gentrification at work. Some builder will come along and snap them up, turn out a bunch of bright, shiny new condos in the blink of an eye.</p><p>He kills the engine on his bike and removes the keys, still considering.</p><p><em> Perhaps, </em> Castiel muses, as he lifts his helmet from his head and shakes out his hair. <em> Perhaps that’s just the sort of adventure I need. </em> He <em> is</em>, after all, in possession of plenty enough savings to purchase one of those unlivable disasters, if he wanted to. Theoretically, he <em> could </em>try and fix one up while continuing to live at the motel. He’d be no worse off than he is at the moment. At least doing so would give him a potential exit plan from the thrills of eating, sleeping, and showering within the same fifteen-by-forty(ish) feet of space. </p><p>And if he fails, surely one of those developers will be waiting in the wings...</p><p>Humming to himself, Castiel rolls his shoulders, his heavy backpack making them ache something fierce. After a long day of being hunched over his desk, this mode of transporting his work materials seems wholly undesirable. Castiel sighs as he walks up to the entrance for his little cottage, but he has to admit, the exterior is fairly welcoming. Two wide steps offer access to a pretty light blue door, with planters on either side full of fall mums—yes, this could definitely be worse. At the very least, the proprietors of this establishment clearly care for it and take pride in how it appears for their guests. </p><p>Castiel’s grateful for that. He stops to sniff the mums, and the familiar spicy-daisy scent is calming.</p><p>The motel itself is a mix of rooms, condos, and standalone tiny structures. Castiel’s rented mini-house happens to be the last in a short row of cottages that stretch along one side of the parking lot. Across the way is the office, tucked into the lower portion of the two-story, more traditional section of the motel. Somewhere behind that building sits a pool that’s closed for the season. Maybe even a hot tub, Castiel hasn’t bothered to check. </p><p>Being on the end, his cottage is right next to the street, leaving him with a potential neighbor on only one side. Since he’s arrived, no one’s come along to rent any of the other houses, but Castiel suspects it’s a different story during peak season. As he keys the lock on the scratched-steel knob open, that thought makes Castiel circle back to his previous idea of attempting a fixer-upper. Frankly, just the <em> idea </em>of being trapped in tourist-central when summer hits is nearly enough to have him high-tailing it back to Illinois. </p><p><em> No, </em> Castiel scolds himself internally. <em> Can’t do that. </em>Housing, social life, and transportation woes aside, Castiel reminds himself that he made a commitment. His own lack of planning and foresight isn’t an excuse to not see this thing with the Bay and Crowley through. Naomi is counting on him.</p><p>And after today, he knows there’s Dean to think about, too. </p><p>Dean, with his troubled past and curious reluctant ties to an apparent mob boss. Dean, with his unearthly, furious green eyes and his devil-may-care attitude that’s so transparently a show. Is he really <em> Dean</em>, the self-assured, confident sex worker? Is he Dean the abject victim? Or is he some confusing mix of all that and more? Castiel finds himself wondering if Dean’s outward projection is something he’s adopted specifically for prison, or whether this facade is one that Dean’s been carrying for much, much longer. </p><p>Experience and instinct tug at Castiel’s mind, insisting that it’s the latter.</p><p>Those thoughts stick with Castiel as he goes about his evening routine, changing out of his suit and into sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee (plus matching sweatshirt) to go for a run. The blue door clicks shut behind him, and he’s off. Castiel’s soles grind on the pebbles in the motel parking lot and then slap as the rocks give way to concrete. His steps echo loudly in the quiet streets and already-winterized buildings that lead to downtown. </p><p>Only a select few stores and restaurants remain open at this hour, this time of the year, and the patronage is sparse. A few couples walk hand-in-hand, on their way over from nearby houses to grab dinner or drinks. Castiel gives them all a wide berth as he jogs. He intentionally avoids the big bar on Main Street, too, the one he knows the guards from the Bay tend to frequent. Much as he might crave an invite—some human contact besides Naomi and various prisoners—not so much while he’s dressed like a gym teacher and sweating through both of his layers. </p><p>Down by the ocean, the boardwalk separating sand from town is even quieter. That solemn, isolated atmosphere is just how Castiel likes it to be. The boardwalk’s wide, lit path stretches for nearly half of a mile in either direction, the only barrier between various hotels and vendors and the beach. Nearly completely deserted tonight, the shops and arcade are shuttered and dark, shells of themselves during these colder months. Similarly, the ice cream and fried food stalls that surely buzz nonstop with business during summer are sporting heavy chains that keep them locked up tight. </p><p>Castiel runs past all of it to the peaceful rhythm of crashing waves. The ocean is dark and frothy and the only other sounds in his ears are the occasional squawking seagull and the <em> slap slap slap </em>of his own sneakers pounding against the wooden slats. </p><p>The scenery turns into a blur. All the way down to the end of the boardwalk and back, one foot in front of the other, nothing but him and the cold air and the peaceful drone of waves. Castiel runs until his blood pounds in his ears and drowns out even that, until his breath burns in his chest, leaving him gasping and his legs threatening to disappear beneath him. It feels so <em> good </em> to simply <em> live </em>inside his own mortal body, to push it to its furthest limits, and forget the rest. </p><p>A quarter of a mile from home, Castiel slows to a cool-down stroll as the boardwalk opens up on one side to the main street. Instead of turning left to head back to the motel, he turns right and steps out onto the sand. It’s almost automatic, the way he gravitates towards the waves, mesmerized and soothed by their steady in and out, <em> in and out, in and out</em>. </p><p>He matches the rhythm of the waves to his breath, moving air more deeply and slowly, encouraging his heart rate down to something softer, something relaxed.</p><p>The sand gives beneath his tired feet, making the walk down towards the water more difficult than it has to be. Over it, Castiel pauses to toe his sneakers off, unable to resist a small groan of relief when they’re gone. He peels off both socks and stuffs them inside as he picks the shoes up to carry. </p><p>Beneath him, the sand is downright cold, but it feels good on his skin after that taxing run. The water, on the other hand—<em>that </em>washes over his toes like ice. Still, Castiel stands his ground in the shallows and takes it, staring placidly out over the wide expanse of blue as the tide trickles in around his ankles. </p><p>He tries not to look. </p><p>Working to stay in the moment, Castiel focuses on the waves, the horizon, the fading spray of red and pink peeking out from behind gloomy clouds that have run out of rain to spit. In the end, though, Castiel can’t help it. He tips his chin over his left shoulder and lets his eyes take in the sight. Miles and miles down the endless sand, long past where the boardwalk ends and the beach turns to marsh and then to rock, sits the imposing figure of the Bay. </p><p>From here, one could almost mistake it for a castle or something else intriguing, instead of what it really is. It’s small in the distance, like a toy, like something that could sit in the palm of Castiel’s hand. Shrouded in evening fall mist, it could even be described as adding to the atmosphere, instead of detracting. Castiel understands why its presence doesn’t necessarily deter tourists and the rich from coming here. It’s like anything else unseemly—so long as it can be kept at arm’s length and plausibly ignored, people will do so. </p><p>Dean flashes across his mind once again, Castiel’s reprieve from all things prison-related apparently over. With a last deep breath of fresh, salty air, he turns and heads for home. The walk back is less than pleasant, stubborn sand abrading his feet and ankles beneath his socks. The minute he’s inside the blue door, Castiel beelines for the shower and washes everything off—the sand, the day, <em> Dean</em>—all of it.</p><p>In his softest boxers and nothing else, Castiel pads out into his tiny living space. The steam from the bathroom follows close behind, bringing warmth with it. Castiel pulls some leftovers from the fridge and nukes them in the microwave. He’s lucky, at least, that his cottage has a full kitchen, a king-sized bed, and plenty of room. All the essentials, really, that one single (if lonely) man could need. Boxes of Castiel’s items that have nowhere to be unpacked to sit stacked against the far wall between the door and bay window, but that’s the only sign that he’s not entirely permanent here. </p><p>As he waits for his food to heat, Castiel flips on the flatscreen TV that’s mounted to the wall next to his stove. Nothing catches his interest and he winds up settling for a rerun of <em> Dr Sexy, M.D. </em>that he’s already seen. There’s a comfortable couch that faces the small kitchen and a dining set parked in between, but Castiel doesn’t see any reason for pretense. He chooses the couch easily, sinking down into the cushions with an assortment of Chinese food that he’s defensibly earned after that run.</p><p>His muscles ache. Shoulders, back, thighs. He winces, shifting in a fruitless attempt to try and get more comfortable. It’s a quadruple-Advil night, of that Castiel is certain. What he wouldn’t give to have a partner to bribe into rubbing him down right about now. </p><p>Dean’s face appears uninvited in his mind once again, and Castiel scowls into his shrimp lo mein. His own code of ethics would never allow him to cross that line, but he’s still a human, and he’s not blind. Nor sexless, for that matter. Unfair as it is, the feel of Dean’s well-muscled body pressing against his, his minty breath puffing close to Castiel’s face—Dean is <em> very </em>aesthetically pleasing, and his memory is not an entirely unwelcome train of thought. </p><p>With some effort, Castiel’s able to push it aside, though his libido is displeased with him for doing so. The bottom line is that it would be gross, using Dean that way, no matter what his lizard brain wants. Dean is not only Castiel’s <em> patient, </em> he’s a person. A human being that may or may not be experiencing <em> daily </em>not-entirely-consensual violations of his body already. </p><p>Castiel wouldn’t be able to stand up and look the man in the eye if he—<em>No. Best not to even go there. </em></p><p>Appetite gone, Castiel packs up the remainder of his food for the second night in a row and flips off the TV. He pulls his laptop from its place in the backpack and spends the next hour or so completing some busywork documentation remotely. It’s much more comfortable doing that sort of thing here, propped up by pillows in his very nice bed, than at his desk. </p><p>All the same, work makes him tired. The Advil kicks in too, setting Castiel up for a good night’s sleep without any of the sheep-counting that’s become too much of a usual habit for him since arriving here in town. Yawing widely, Castiel finds himself nodding off with his fingers still clacking away on the keyboard. He barely manages to get his computer closed and his bedside lamp switched off before he’s out like a light, no memory of his head even hitting the pillow. </p><p>The next day dawns with more grey skies and rain, the droplets pelting down on the cheap, galvanized steel roof of his rental. Castiel wakes slowly before his alarm, and try as he might, he can’t ignore the dreams his mind insisted on supplying him with overnight. A mix of Dean in various compromising positions, Castiel playing the starring role of the inmate putting him there in each and every one. While he’d love to say he’s repulsed by himself, that doesn’t seem to stop what happens next.</p><p>Castiel’s lips stick together as they part around a gasp, sheets damp and sticking to his overheated, sweaty skin. Inside his boxers, he’s hard as a rock, so much so that it’s painful. His hips rut instinctively against the mattress while Dean’s face, contorted in pleasure, floats across the back of his eyelids. Before he’s even fully conscious or aware of what’s happening, Castiel’s crying out and coming in his boxers, spend hot and wet and sticky as he pants into his pillow and flushes with a terrible mix of relief and shame. </p><p>“Fuck,” Castiel breathes as he rolls over and stares blankly up at the white ceiling, sheets tangling in a twist around his waist. “That’s going to be a problem.” </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Dean POV, what it's like on the inside, therapy is for suckers, Cas isn't falling for Dean's tricks, a thin ray of hope.</p><p>**AdSeg is Administrative Segregation aka solitary aka the Hole, etc. AdSeg is similar to protection, they are essentially the same thing for different reasons. Protection can be indefinite, AdSeg is usually a punishment with a limited time-frame. Practically speaking, they're the same thing, although *sometimes* protection is done in medical or in a nicer area and w/increased privileges. We'll get into that later.</p><p>Thoughts about Dean's situation and Cas'?!?! DO YOU LIKE MY BANNER I MADE IT</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Dean gives it a week until he has Castiel wrapped around his finger.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've been having a really terrible week and a really tough time. I apologize for not answering comments yet, I haven't had the spoons. I thought you all might prefer another chapter rather than a reply, but I will get to all of you.</p><p>Updates: I think I am going to try for regular Friday updates.</p><p>Quick note about Dean's age: I've aged him up from Sam a *little* in this fic, I think the age diff is in the 6-7 year range. It's not overly important, but Dean is like 26 and Sam is 18.</p><p>Chapter-specific warnings:<br/>--&gt;Non-graphic dubcon scene with Dean/Gordon (cut away before anything happens), vague thoughts on Dean's behalf about previous Dean/Benny.<br/>--&gt;thoughts about hopelessness/feeling trapped, thoughts about being forced into sex work. Dean has complicated thoughts on this: *he* is sex work positive but he also knows that his situation is fucked up.<br/>--&gt;Prisoners treat Dean's situation like it's a joke, he is somewhat outcasted by others.<br/>--&gt;A guard makes derogatory comments about sex work/ers.<br/>--&gt;Non-graphic medical procedure (blood draw/genital swab) that Dean does NOT want to happen. The nurse is kind, Dean does allow the procedures to happen and is not overly upset, but this could definitely be considered nonconsensual and Dean does not have the ability to refuse. This is definitely a thing that happens in prisons--if medical testing is deemed necessary and in the patient's best interest and they refuse, they can and frequently are forced to comply. As with many things in this fic, Dean acts less bothered than he probably should be, although he has some flippant "better off dead" thoughts that could be read as vaguely suicidal due to his embarrassment over it.<br/>--&gt;i added the tag for Bisexual Dean because he does have some thoughts about women in this fic, but it's all in passing. There will not be any Dean/Tessa, the only romantic pairing and the only person Dean ends up with ANY true interest in is Castiel. In this chapter, he does have some passing fantasies about Tessa and Cas but there is no graphic description, just Dean drifting off in his own head, often to cope with a difficult situation.</p><p>If I missed anything, please let me know.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Cushy.” That’s the word Dean’s public defender used to describe the Bay, long before Dean had ever seen it. It was one of only a very small handful he said <em> to </em>Dean at all during the short hour they spent together at the courthouse. The day that Dean was arraigned, his douchebag P.D. showed up late, looking arrogant and mussed and sporting the attitude that his very presence was a gift to lesser men. He might as well have flat-out declared that Dean should be quiet and grateful to receive it, which seems to be an ongoing theme in his life. </p><p>At any rate, Dean may not have bought into all that, but he did keep his mouth shut. Not out of respect, but simply because he knew enough to realize that protesting his fate was futile. Asshole or not, this dude was who he was stuck with, and his situation was virtually a done deal by then.</p><p>After all, Crowley was the guy pulling the strings, not Matlock, Jr. Truthfully, this dude could be the best lawyer Dean’s lack of money could never buy, and it wouldn’t matter. If Crowley decided Dean belonged on the inside, experience with the man and his connections dictated that was what was going to happen. Best to just roll with it. Dean figured he’d go through the process, find out what the hell the boss wanted, and figure a way out from there.</p><p>Clad in an ill-fitting suit that Sam wore for his high school graduation and therefore had to be rolled at the sleeves, Dean fidgeted in his seat the entire time. He knew full-well that he looked every part the mess he was being made out by the D.A.’s office to be. Nothing he could do about that, either. </p><p>It didn’t take a genius to follow the court proceedings, which was good, because The Gift definitely wasn’t explaining shit. The only truly notable thing Dean was able to pick up on was the part about <em> where </em>he’d be held on remand, since he couldn’t afford bail. </p><p>“The Bay,” his shitty lawyer piped up in suggestion, virtually the only thing he’d said on Dean’s behalf by that point. The judge hesitated, prompting a subsequent bit of bickering back and forth between all parties. The Gift threw out some legalese Dean didn’t understand, the D.A. relented, and then it was done. The judge shrugged and consented, smacking his gavel and stamping the paperwork through, and now, Dean’s ass belongs to the Bay.</p><p>Or, well, it <em> lives </em>at the Bay. It belongs to Crowley.</p><p>Privately, even now, Dean thinks he could’ve done a better job at representing himself. An errand boy at best and a streetwalker at worst, even <em> he </em> knows that first offenders with non-violent charges and ties to the community (hey, Sammy counts, even if he is a legal adult) can usually get bail waived. What was the point, though? The cop who picked him up was dirty, the public defender was clearly in Crowley’s pocket—the whole system felt corrupt and stacked against him. Fighting back wouldn’t have done anything but put Sam at risk, and Dean would do anything, <em> anything </em> in the whole damn world to prevent <em> that</em>.</p><p>Point being—<em>Cushy. </em> When Dean asked about where he was going, that was the word he got in reply. <em> Cushy. </em> Dean forgets—he had other things on his mind that day—but he’s <em> pretty </em> sure the skeezy lawyer’s name was <em> Dick. </em> Anyway, that’s how he described the place. How he described the Bay. And yeah, sure, compared to County Lockup? Dickhead was right, it is cushy. But it’s also <em> still </em> fucking <em> prison.  </em></p><p>Yes, Dean has his own cell. A reasonably nice cell, with a toilet and a little sink and a good-sized (if frosted) window, and Dean will never, ever take those things for granted. The forty-eight hours he spent locked into a ten-by-ten holding pen in County were the extreme opposite. Tiny, shared space with three battered bunkbeds and five other smelly dudes—that really drove the alternative home. Pay-for-play situation Crowley has him embroiled in aside, Dean wouldn’t trade it.</p><p>H2, the housing block Dean’s cell is a part of at the Bay, is comparatively nice as fuck. There’s a sitting area with couches, a dining table with chairs in the middle, kitchen shit, even a TV. County just can’t compete—and that’s without even getting into the rec, cafeteria, and work facilities the Bay boasts. </p><p>Yeah, <em> fine, </em> Dean can see how some might describe the place as <em> cushy.  </em></p><p>For him, though, it’s all just a show. None of this <em> stuff </em> changes his reality or the fact that Dean is the least free guy <em> in </em> this place. Some days, he thinks he’d prefer the fetid stink, the appalling conditions, and the lack of privacy County offers. At least there, he’d have a shot at being his own man. At keeping his body to himself, when he feels like it (which is pretty much fucking <em> always </em> with the options at hand<em>, </em> fuck Crowley). </p><p>The rain is obnoxious this morning. Beating down on the roof and walls of the prison, fully obscuring the already blurry shatterproof glass of Dean’s barred window. He sighs and rolls over on his cot, glancing up and frowning at the sight. He rarely bothers to draw the tiny curtain anymore; natural light is one of the few pleasures he gets in this place. Even still, waking to rain is just...depressing.</p><p>Stretching his limbs to their limits, Dean winces at the persistent ache in the side of his face, exacerbated when he yawns. Pressing two fingers into the hinge of his jaw, Dean massages and gently tries to loosen the muscle up. Maybe Tessa will be working the infirmary today...if so, he can probably flirt his way to a couple of Ibuprofen.</p><p>Blinking up at the stained ceiling, Dean lets his hand fall from his face, landing limply next to his head.The block is beginning to wake up, the sounds of men laughing and yelling drifting impersonally through the thick metal of Dean’s closed door. It’s only the illusion of privacy, after all. Dean might as well have a sign on the outside that says, “Always Open,” for how much people respect it. </p><p>He frowns and runs his tongue over his teeth. Nothing but morning breath and the faint memory of mouthwash, but that’s not what Dean tastes. He thinks about Benny, coming back after dinner last night and before lockdown, about finishing what he started when that dumbass new head doc walked in. Thing is, shit could be worse than Benny. Fucked up as it is, the guy is probably the closest thing to friend Dean even <em> has </em>in this shithole.</p><p>Yeah, Benny’s in Crowley’s pocket, but most people are. Hell, look at Dean—he’s got no goddamn room to talk. In another time and place, maybe Dean and Benny could have even had something—a fun fling, anyway, couple of awesome hookups. Benny’s not rough, he’s not a jerk, he’d gladly get Dean off too, even now—if that was something Dean wanted. </p><p>Most importantly, Benny knows that if <em> he’s </em> in Dean’s room, taking advantage of whatever Crowley said he could, then he’s preventing anyone else from doing the same thing. It’s so <em> close </em>to noble that it makes Dean laugh. He appreciates the sentiment, but it’s empty. A short-term reprieve, if anything.</p><p>Dean’s over it, though. He’s fine. No sense in dwelling on shit he can’t change. Things could be worse for him. He’s got a roof over his head, a decent bed, three squares, and most importantly, <em> Sam </em>is safe. Everything else—he can take it.</p><p>Like clockwork, the door to his cell creaks open. From the long shadows stretching across the floor on the other side, Dean can tell that the main gate to the housing block is still shut tight. He yawns again, shoving his hands down beside his hips and pushing his body upright. The mattress crinkles and the thin, prison-issued sheet and blanket pool at his hips.</p><p>“Sup, Gordon?” he asks mildly, raising an eyebrow at the inmate lurking in his doorway. Gordon just sinks against the frame and rubs his hands together like the villain in a Bond movie. <em> Idiot, </em>Dean thinks. Gordon licks his lips and Dean rolls his eyes, holding out a hand and crooking his fingers impatiently. “C’mon, lets see it. What’d you win?” </p><p>Gordon saunters forward, all swagger and absolutely zero ambivalence about what he’s here to do. He digs a rolled scrap of paper with jagged edges out of his pocket and slaps it into Dean’s palm with a smirk. “See for yourself.”</p><p>Unfurling the note, Dean reads the familiar cursive scrawl and can’t help it; he sighs. Normally, he tries to keep a more blank, devil-may-care attitude, but Crowley’s antics are <em> so </em> fucking stupid, sometimes he can’t help slipping. Half the time he feels like a perverted hall monitor checking passes with these fucking permission-slip notes. Not like he wouldn’t take most people’s word for it if they told him Crowley gave them the say-so (especially knowing that Crowley would <em> destroy </em> anyone caught lying in his name), but hell. Crowley’s a special kind of control freak. <em> Everything </em>is goddamn recorded and accounted for. </p><p><em> Dealer’s choice, </em>the note says. Lucky Gordon, must’ve really come through with something big for Crowley to put the full menu on the table. Lucky Dean, that the commissary restocked their lube and that Crowley keeps his account in the black. </p><p>“Come on,” he says resignedly, swinging his feet over the side of the cot. The chilly cement seeps through his cheap uniform socks, and Dean shivers. “Clothes off or on?” </p><p>The glint in Gordon’s eye is almost downright evil, his expression turning predatory as he advances across the space. He’s not overly intimidating as a person, but his presence makes Dean’s cell feel ten times smaller with every step. “I think you know the answer,” he replies easily, back to rubbing his hands together and biting his lip. His gaze <em> feels </em>oily as it sweeps over Dean’s body, completely unabashed.</p><p>Dean tries his best not to gag or make faces, that never seems to go well for him.</p><p>Closing his eyes, Dean faces the rain-soaked window while he strips, only opening them when he’s done. The room is chilly, so he leaves his elastic-waisted scrubs hanging somewhere around his thighs for that and efficiency’s sake. It’s unlikely that Gordon will care, so Dean risks it, ignoring the way the band digs painfully into his skin when he spreads his legs. Time runs short, and the quicker he gets this over with, the quicker he can score some breakfast. </p><p>It’s Wednesday, and that means <em> bacon.  </em></p><p><em> Things could be worse, </em> Dean reminds himself, grabbing the snap-top bottle from its place on the windowsill and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. He smirks when he hears Gordon fumble and drop it. <em> Small victories. </em> The rain pelts relentlessly against the glass, and Dean presses a hand against it, wishing he could feel the fresh water on his skin. The rain, the wind, the tang of salt from the sea—<em>anything </em>but the stale, recycled air he’s breathing inside this nightmare factory would be a relief.</p><p>Yard time will almost definitely be cancelled today—none of the guards want to get their clothing soaked for the sake of some criminals having free time out of their kennels. </p><p>With the glass being frosted the way it is, Dean is just barely able to make out the tops of the trees on the opposite side. They’re there, though, uppermost branches waving in the wind. The lush greenery shakes and shivers where it peeks over the barbed wire that lines the exterior walls, leaves falling increasingly fast these days. Another season Dean will miss, another day, month, <em> year </em>he’ll spend locked up and at Crowley’s whim. </p><p>Dean’s not an idiot. He’ll get out of here when Crowley does, at best. At worst, he’ll serve his entire sentence of trumped-up charges, staying behind long after Crowley is gone. It’s in his best interest to behave—not just for Sam’s sake, but for his own. <em> Maybe, </em>just maybe, if he’s good, then when Crowley gets out of here, he’ll let Dean go, too. Let him off the hook. </p><p>It’s not like Dean has any other choice than to do what he’s told and to hope.</p><p>“C’mon,” he says gruffly, barely glancing over his shoulder as Gordon’s fingers dig greedily into the flesh around his hipbone. “Let’s get this shit over with.”</p><p>***</p><p>Small fucking mercies, Gordon doesn’t like to kiss, and he doesn’t stick his fingers (or anything else) in Dean’s mouth, so Dean doesn’t have to waste his toothpaste doing extra passes to clean it out when they’re done. Other parts of his body aren’t so lucky, but out of sight, out of mind is definitely a thing. Dean has learned to live with it. </p><p>As soon as the unit’s gate beeps and slides open at seven a.m. on the dot, he’s out of the housing block like a shot. Shuffling down the hallway in his shitty plastic shower sandals, Dean swings his toiletry bin and whistles. A towel and a clean set of scrubs are clutched in his other hand. That’s another thing that differs from County—fresh clothing and linen aren’t lacking here. Despite the rough start to his day, Dean again reminds himself that his life could be worse.</p><p>In theory, someone like Dean would probably fear the shower block. Other prisoners definitely do—or they did, anyway, before Dean came along. Dean’s pretty sure that his very presence in Crowley’s prison has been a godsend for certain previously-targeted inmates. A predator is a predator and prey is prey, Dean’s ass just happens to be available and in season. </p><p>On the other hand, there are <em> rules </em> to that, too. Without Crowley’s go-ahead, Dean and his ass are off-limits. Anyone who breaks that rule will find themselves on the business end of Benny’s fist, and pretty much everyone knows that Benny will be <em> more </em> than happy to wildly fuck up anyone who hurts Dean. That is, if Dean leaves anything behind for him <em> to </em> fuck up, which—trust him—given the opportunity, he won’t.  </p><p>All that translates to Dean being relatively safe, in general. The shower block, the library, the blind spot in the hallway between H1 and H2 that none of the cameras can see—they’re all safe for Dean. No one is going to randomly jump him or touch him or harass him. At least, no one that he doesn’t see coming.</p><p>And yet, that fact doesn’t make his life any better. </p><p>It’s almost worse that he <em> always </em>has to see it coming, and that it never fucking stops.</p><p>Most of the showers are already occupied when Dean enters the block, and several inmates are standing along the stretch of sinks, shaving or going through other hygiene rituals. Club Fed comes with a different caliber of inmate—a lot of these guys are fucking full of themselves and have no problem showing it. Fancy skincare shipped from home, expensive hair gel, electric razors that cost as much as Dean used to pay in rent. All stuff that the guards “overlook” on the rare occasion they bother to check cells for contraband at all. It’s amazing the wheels that a little cash can grease, even in prison.</p><p>Everyone present ignores Dean when he enters the steamy room, except for Max. Max is a light-brown-skinned, attractive young guy whose DotCom was busted for tax evasion or some shit, Dean really doesn’t know or care. His sister (and business parter) is locked up in whatever the Bay equivalent for chicks is. Dean wouldn’t care about that either, except that he’s bonded a little with the guy over stuff that only older siblings with chips on their shoulders can understand.</p><p>Max’s face lights up when he sees Dean walking by in the mirror. He waves, toothbrush sticking out of his foamy mouth. Dean claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “Mornin’, cupcake.” </p><p>Snorting, Max leans forward to spit before wiping his face and clearing his throat. “I ain’t the cream-filled one,” he replies with a wink. </p><p>“Shut up,” Dean retorts, cheeks heating. He slips into the closest empty stall and yanks the curtain shut behind him, Max’s good-natured laugh following behind. Dumping his clothes onto the narrow bench inside the dressing area, Dean throws his towel over the lot before dropping his caddy to the floor. Turning on the shower, Dean cranks it up almost as high as it will go. Steam fills the cramped space and he sucks it readily into his lungs, trying to relax and restart his day without the memories from earlier. </p><p>The water is <em> almost </em>scorching enough to wash it all away. That’s another benefit of the Bay—hot water is plentiful, and it doesn’t run out. Not even with everyone taking morning showers or repeat industrial loads of laundry being done around the clock. Hell, Dean’s lived in apartments with shittier plumbing than that. </p><p><em> Cushy, </em> he remembers, rolling his eyes. <em> Yeah, maybe. </em></p><p>He hangs out under the rushing water for as long as his skin can stand it, even when people start banging on the frame of his stall, demanding he get a move on. Skin pink and almost raw, Dean actually feels pretty okay as he steps out and towel dries off. His ass is a little sore—it twinges when he moves too quickly—but yet again, it’s nothing Dean isn’t used to. </p><p>Throwing on his clean orange outfit, Dean tosses the armful of dirty clothes into the big laundry bin by the shower block door. When he steps out into the hallway, he brightens as a familiar, <em> soothing </em> smell reaching his nose. “Bacon!” he announces happily, hurrying back to H2 to get his real shoes before heading over to breakfast.</p><p>***</p><p>“Hey,” Dean says to Max, once they’re seated at one of the many identical cafeteria tables. Their trays are full of bacon, canned fruit, and reconstituted powdered eggs, the latter jiggling unappetizingly in front of them. Hey—nothing’s perfect, and if the <em> egg quality </em>is Dean’s biggest complaint today, he figures he’s doing okay. “Uh, did you meet the new psych yet?”</p><p>Max glances up at him from across the table, peering questioningly over the rim of his styrofoam coffee cup. His eyebrows are raised and he swallows a big gulp before he speaks. “No man,” he replies, shaking his head. “Why? Oh—is he shady? Creepy? He try to—you know.” Max looks at him meaningfully, sticking his finger inside of his mouth and pushing it into his cheek. </p><p>“Nah,” Dean replies, brow furrowing as he pauses, bacon caught midway from the plate to his mouth. “Kind of the opposite, actually. Caught me with Benny, tried to go all white-knight on his ass.” </p><p>“Fuck,” Max replies, setting his cup down. “Dude, you’re lucky that <em> was </em> Benny and not someone else<em>.”  </em></p><p>“That’s what I said! Gordon would’ve landed the both of us in AdSeg for sure.” </p><p>“So, was the doc cool about it, or—”</p><p>“That’s the thing,” Dean continues, and fuck it, this is prison. Who needs manners? He stuffs the strip of bacon into his mouth and talks around it. The other inmates at the table don’t blink or miss a beat, mostly ignoring him completely or doing the same damn thing, par for the course. “He <em> was, </em>but he also…” Dean trails off, working his jaw and swallowing. Still sore. “I dunno, man. Got a weird vibe. Like he—”</p><p>“Wants to fuck you too?”</p><p>“Like he gave a shit.” Dean meets Max’s eyes and they stare at each other solemnly for a prolonged second before Max bursts out laughing, slapping his thigh and leaning back in his chair. Amongst the ruckus of talking and chairs scraping in the cafeteria, hardly anyone even reacts, but Dean slumps a little in his seat anyway. After a moment, he breaks and huffs a small chuckle, though it’s forced. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” </p><p>“Anyway,” Max says, sucking in a deep breath to compose himself. “Hey, you got anyone coming to see you this week? H1 and H2 are up for visitation on Friday.” </p><p>Dean averts his eyes, dragging a piece of slightly stale bread through bacon grease. “Uh, not sure,” he lies. “Told Sammy to stay away, but the kid ain’t all that good at listening.” Not that Dean can do much about it. Sam will <em> definitely </em>be here on Friday—the question is, will Dean agree to see him? He figures if he ignores his brother, Sam will eventually give up and stop coming. That’s better for both of them—Dean tells himself that distance will keep Sam safer, and that the thought itself isn’t an excuse.</p><p>Not that Crowley needs physical proximity to go after anyone. </p><p>Speaking of which—</p><p>The cafeteria’s double doors bang open—both of them at the same time—which is completely dramatic and unnecessary. Dean doesn’t so much as glance up from trying to sponge the remnants of his breakfast into the last of his bread, he’s more than used to the diva routine from the man in charge. </p><p>A shadow falls over his plate, and still Dean keeps on keeping on, unwilling to give even <em> half </em>of an inch that he’s not explicitly forced to take.</p><p>“Morning, Dean,” Crowley’s smarmy British accent finds Dean’s ears from somewhere behind his back. Expensive cologne wafts obnoxiously from over a foot away, unpleasantly assaulting Dean’s nostrils. He works hard to not react, even as the unwanted presence draws closer and hovers directly over him. “Looks tasty.”</p><p>Stuffing the last bite into his mouth, Dean nods nonchalantly and replies with his mouth full. “Crowley.” </p><p>There’s a pause, a heavy bite of anticipation that lingers in the air as the whole room holds its breath. Mouth dry, Dean tenses against his will. The moment passes unseized, though, Crowley apparently disinterested in messing around before noon today, and he moves on. “Max,” Crowley snaps as he goes, strolling over to the table at the rear of the cafeteria, where his back can be set firmly to the wall. His inner circle follows close behind, settling down around him like the buffer they are. “My tea.” </p><p>Max shrugs apologetically at Dean before scrambling up and heading over to the buffet-style serving counter to fix Crowley a cup and a plate. It’s not as if Dean blames him—he’d trade <em> his </em> job for glorified waiter in heartbeat, how the fuck does he sign up for that gig? Max is <em> damn </em> lucky<em>.  </em></p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches Crowley—leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped across his stomach—flaunt that he hasn’t got a goddamn care in the world. He smiles when he sees Dean looking, pursing his lips into a kissy face. <em> Gross. </em>Dean’s suddenly grateful he ate quickly today, since his appetite has fled the building. At least some part of him gets to go outside.</p><p>***</p><p>The weather proves Dean wrong, which is the first decent thing to happen to him today.</p><p>Besides bacon.</p><p>After his shift in the laundry room (also cushy, and to be honest, Dean would give his left nut for a gritty license-plate-making sweatshop or something even remotely more interesting), the rain stops. It’s kind of surprising—the way the droplets had been beating relentlessly at the windows didn’t seem promising—but here they are.</p><p>Even Crowley pauses in his operation of the laundry press to glance over at the barred, frosted glass in surprise when the noise from all the crappy weather suddenly lets up. “Well,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “That’s a welcome change. Being trapped inside with you lot all day always puts me in such a foul mood. Wouldn’t you agree, Dean?” </p><p>Dean grunts and tips his head in acknowledgment, doing the absolute least he can get away with to ignore the man. Hefting the pile of sheets he’s finished folding up and onto his shoulder, Dean carries and shelves them onto the oversized cart that will eventually take them back to linen storage. </p><p>“Oh, come now, Dean, where are your manners? One would think you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” </p><p>There’s a smattering of laughter that follows, rippling discourteously across the room. Dean just grits his teeth and ignores the baiting, grabbing a new sheet from the tangled bundle in the giant bin and snapping it out more energetically than necessary. The sheet flutters down onto the folding table and thankfully, Crowley just chuckles. Having apparently gotten what he was looking for out of that interaction, he lets Dean alone and returns to his own job.</p><p>The superheated iron hisses and releases a blast of steam under Crowley’s hands, and Dean side-eyes it on pure instinct. The press belongs to the Top Dog—it’s a status symbol, a power display—and Crowley can use it however he sees fit. Dean’s witnessed more than one prisoner on the boss’ bad side have his hand slid unceremoniously in between the jaws of the appliance, held there by Crowley’s goons until their skin is blistering.</p><p>As if Dean didn’t have enough fuel and fodder to haunt his nightmares already. </p><p>Just as he’s creasing the last sheet, the overhead P.A. crackles to life. Bored guards sitting in the office just outside the laundry yawn and stretch, probably as happy as the inmates are for their work shifts to be over.</p><p>“<em> The compound is now open. H1 and H2 blocks may report for lunch.”  </em></p><p>Dean finishes what he’s doing and moves the clean linen cart up against the wall before brushing his hands together and heading for the door. No one really speaks to him, but no one bothers him either. Dean’s fine with that—he knows firsthand that there are worst things than being invisible. Considering that and the fact that the laundry team is comprised of <em> all </em>of Crowley’s most loyal minions, Dean’s just happy to get out of there relatively unbothered.</p><p>“Oh, Dean?” Crowley calls from behind, <em> right </em>as Dean makes it to the door. He stops in his tracks and closes his eyes, telling his face to remain unbothered and hoping that it listens. “Expect a visit later.” Taking a deep breath, Dean nods curtly before taking off at a near-run down the hall. Sure, running away in prison is kind of a futile effort, but sue him, Dean’s never gonna stop trying.</p><p>“Winchester!” </p><p>With a groan, Dean stops short and pulls a hand over his face as one of the guards catches up to him. He recognizes the voice without looking—Deacon, a lead C.O. that’s a whole lotta bark but mostly decent underneath all of it. <em> Way </em>underneath, but still. “Boss,” he acknowledges. “Was heading to lunch. Starving, you know how folding gets me all worked up.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about how worked up you get,” Deacon replies off-handedly. Dean tries not to cringe. “You’re not in trouble. Medical wants ya.” </p><p>“Dude, <em> lunch,</em>” Dean protests, as the rest of the inmates from the laundry file by him, some sniggering. He crosses his arms. “I’ll head over after I eat, promise.” </p><p>“The hell you will,” Deacon scoffs. Apparently done asking, he grabs Dean by the bicep and starts dragging him down the hallway, opposite direction from the cafeteria and Dean’s shot at a semi-decent day.</p><p>“Dude! Not cool.”</p><p>“Not being a dick, Winchester. Just don’t feel like chasing you down later when Tessa can’t get her paperwork completed ‘cause you’re out sitting by the fence, watchin’ the waves.” </p><p>Begrudgingly, Dean nods. He <em> does </em>do that, was planning on spending his entire afternoon down there, actually. Close as he can get to freedom—why wouldn’t he take advantage? All the more reason to protest his time there being unfairly cut short.</p><p>“You can get back to your daydreaming ‘bout blowin’ all your boyfriends on the streets just as soon as you give Tessa what she wants first.”</p><p>Anyone, <em> anywhere </em> else, and Dean would put them through a <em> wall </em> just for <em> thinking </em> some shit like that in his direction. It’s not the gay thing—Dean’s bi as they come and fuckin’ <em> let </em>someone make fun of him for that. He’s been defending his sexuality since he was sixteen and his dad caught him with his hands down his best friend Lee’s pants. Hell, maybe that was what finally killed the bastard.</p><p>Dean snorts, leading Deacon to look at him with suspicion, which is better than the assault charge he’d have caught for acting on his anger instead of laughing. “Something funny, Winchester?” </p><p>“Nah,” Dean replies, still letting himself be yanked down the hallway towards medical. “Just not a big fan of your tone, that’s all. <em> Sir. </em>Sex work is real work.” </p><p>It’s Deacon’s turn to snort, rolling his eyes as he badges open the secured door to Tessa’s office. Big, shatterproof glass windows are set into the walls, allowing passersby to see inside the infirmary. It’s empty, save for Tessa, dressed in her white nurse’s uniform and fussing over some instruments on a tray. </p><p>Deacon shoves him forward, rougher than he usually is, and Dean stumbles. “See this?” he barks. “What I’m doing here? Babysitting your sorry, delinquent ass? <em> This </em>is real work. Not trading rim jobs for dimebags, asshole. Tess, you need me to stay?” </p><p>“Nah,” Tessa replies, selecting a plastic-wrapped syringe and motioning for Dean to get onto one of the exam tables. She steps closer and pats his cheek. “Dean’s a good boy, he’ll behave for me.”</p><p>“Depends on what your definition of behaving is,” Dean retorts. He flashes her a smile and a wink, though he hops compliantly up on the table all the same. Crinkly paper rustles beneath his scrubs and he winces involuntarily as he plops down, ass a little too sore for that move. </p><p>Of course, because this is Dean’s life, Deacon catches his flinch and laughs, smacking a hand against his chest before waggling a finger at Dean. “You’re something else, Winchester,” is all he says before exiting the infirmary, leaving Dean and Tessa alone.</p><p>“Whatever,” Dean grumbles.</p><p>Swinging his feet in the air, Dean averts his eyes and waits, though he has a pretty good idea of what this is about. Tessa appears in front of him, not nearly as keen as Deacon was to let him play the nonchalant douchebag that doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about his life choices.</p><p>“Don’t listen to him,” she says softly, pulling her tray of instruments closer.</p><p>It’s interesting to Dean, how trusting she is. Sure, this is a low-risk sort of lockup, despite Crowley. The inmates here are mostly glad to be doing their time in a facility of this caliber, with the freedoms they do have—they’re not willing to risk it for some dumb stunt. All the same, there are still protocols, still <em> rules, </em>still regulations that everyone is supposed to live and hopefully not die by, for safety reasons. </p><p>These are <em> still </em>criminals, him included.</p><p>Tessa’s got all kinds of shit on that tray he could use to hurt her, and half of it wouldn’t take any creativity at all. Yet, she acts as if she <em> knows </em> beyond a doubt that Dean can be trusted. That’s true, he can be—obviously—but <em> she </em>doesn’t know that. It confuses Dean, but he’s not about to reject or question the little bit of kindness and empathy he can get.</p><p>Plus, Tessa is hot. Pretty, pale, smooth skin, dark hair that slips out of her ponytail in tendrils that frame her face. Delicate features, a curvy, sexy body—<em>don’t drool, </em> Dean reminds himself. <em> Don’t be a creep. </em> In another time and place (at a bar, maybe, or hell, at a store—the frozen foods section of the supermarket) Dean would sweep Tessa off her feet. Buy them both some beers, take her back to his place—</p><p>“Six months,” Tessa says, interrupting his reverie. Her smile is gentle as she raises her eyebrows and holds up both the syringe and a swab. “Since you arrived here?”</p><p>“Six—oh.” The puzzle pieces slide into place and Dean makes a face. “No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna know. It’s not gonna—I just don’t wanna know. Maybe at the end, when I’m gettin’ out. If that ever fuckin’ happens.” Fuck knows, if Crowley somehow messes up and ends up doing life, Dean has no delusions that he won’t be saddled with the same miserable sentence.</p><p>“Sorry, kitten,” Tessa says with a shrug, unwrapping the syringe and grabbing a tourniquet from the tray. “Not up for discussion. Warden’s orders. She says that she doesn’t want any outbreaks happening or infections being passed around—wouldn’t look good for the prison.”</p><p>“Glad to see she’s so concerned for my health and safety,” Dean mutters, but he offers his bare arm anyway. His <em> one </em>consolation is that Tessa’s lips quirk, and the twinkle in her eye suggests she agrees with his views on the Warden. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make Dean’s current situation any less humiliating.</p><p>While Tessa ties the thin piece of elastic tight enough around his bicep to stop the blood flow, Dean stares blankly at the ceiling. At least it’s a <em> different </em>ceiling to stare at, a minor change in his routine. Dean’s become so damn used to doing the same thing day in and day out, hour after hour, boredom so common it’s swiftly becoming his closest friend. </p><p>This visit to the infirmary may be frustrating and embarrassing, but it <em> is </em> different<em>. </em>A break in the rote routine, and Tessa is both nice and nice to look at. Dean can focus on those things, anyway. Appreciate them for what they are. That’s the good, here, ‘cause there definitely isn’t anything else.</p><p>“What, uh—” He starts and then stops, clearing his throat and knowing full well that his cheeks are turning pink. </p><p>“Full panel,” Tessa replies immediately, clearly uninterested in torturing him. That makes exactly one person who feels that way, and Dean wonders vaguely if she’s some sort of angel. “Anything wrong in that body of yours, we’ll know about it. Hey, if it helps, I got the doc to throw in some other basic bloodwork, so it’s just like having your yearly physical. No big deal.” </p><p>Forget torturing him—Tessa is <em> so </em> kind, so <em> non- </em> judgemental, Dean’s cheeks burn with shame. He makes the mistake of looking up and meeting her eyes. “Little prick,” she says seriously, without even an ounce of irony. This chick does <em> not </em>belong here, that’s for damn sure. Dean swallows hard and nods as Tessa’s gaze shifts to his arm and she pushes the needle smoothly into a vein.</p><p>It’s nothing. Dean barely feels it, but he watches intently as tube after tube fill with his blood, carefully removed and collected until it seems as if half of what he’s working with must be on the tray. “Hopefully no one tries to kick my ass today,” he jokes weakly. </p><p>“I’ve got some cookies,” Tessa offers, removing the needle and taping him up before bagging the samples and pressing a pre-written label to the outside of the plastic. Dean moves to step down from the table, figuring he’s done, but she stops him with a soft hand to the chest. Reaching out with her free arm, Tessa send the privacy curtain flying, obscuring the view from the hallway window. </p><p>“One more thing,” she says, almost apologetically.</p><p>“No way,” Dean protests, remembering this drill from intake and reflexively crossing his legs. </p><p>“Don’t be a baby,” Tessa chastises, tearing open a swab duo and uncorking the test tubes she’ll have to insert them into, after—<em>after.  </em></p><p>“Dude, no,” Dean says firmly, shaking his head. “Listen, I cooperated with the rest, can’t you just—”</p><p>“It won’t hurt.”</p><p>“That’s not the <em> point!”  </em></p><p>Tessa sighs, coming to stand next to him and placing a hand gently on his forearm. “Dean,” she says patiently. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. You know I don’t want to force you, but this is the Warden’s call. It’s a direct order for me. If you’re going to refuse, I’ll have to call Deacon back and—” </p><p>Just like that, Dean’s attitude changes. “Yep, nope, no fucking way. Dude’s got enough ammo to mock me for the rest of both our lives as it is.” </p><p>And that’s how Dean finds himself with his pants around his thighs for the <em> second </em>time that day, bent over with his cheeks spread. Somehow, this is worse. It doesn’t hurt, that much is true—just a quick, tickling swipe and done—but Dean’s never hated himself and his situation more. </p><p>Tessa lets him do the swab that goes in the tip of his dick himself, and Dean tries not to think about all the ways being dead would be better than this. Tries not to think about his earlier fantasy where Tessa sees him as something other than a sad-sack prostitute that needs a full-panel STI check every six months so he doesn’t become a prison-wide <em> disease vector, holy fuck. </em></p><p>When his pants are safely back on and all the samples are sealed, Tessa hands him a six-pack of oreos that comes straight out of her desk drawer. “Don’t tell anyone,” she says with a wink, and Dean dies a little inside. She pats him on the back before hustling him out the door. “If it helps,” she adds thoughtfully, touching the end of her pen to her lips. “You do have a <em> really </em>nice ass.” </p><p>Tipping his head to the side, Dean thinks about that for a second. “It helps,” he admits begrudgingly, shuffling off with his cookies like a kindergartner who completed all of their stations early and earned a prize. The infirmary door clicks shut behind him.</p><p>Halfway down the hall, Dean already has two Oreos stuffed into his mouth. Sugar flowing steadily into his depleted bloodstream, he feels slightly better about the medical invasion of his personal fucking space. Like he doesn’t get that from Crowley’s idiots enough as it is. He’s so caught up enjoying his treat and licking frosting off of his fingers that he stops paying attention to his surroundings. A cardinal sin for a prisoner in general, but Dean isn’t all that worried. Even if he wasn’t Crowley’s property, there’s not a dude in here who can take Dean one-on-one, and he’s <em> happy </em>to remind anyone who might forget it of that cold, hard fact.</p><p>Being preoccupied means that he doesn’t really look twice at anyone else in the hall. This is an admin section of the prison—it houses the infirmary, medical stay and MedSeg rooms, a couple of offices and a classroom that does double duty hosting group therapy. Oh, and the library. Dean does like the library, it’s about the only thing keeping him sane in this shithole, aside from the yard. That reminds him—he’s got books to exchange tonight. A dude can only read On The Road so many friggin’ times.</p><p>Being an area a lot of the brass spend time in, there are cameras <em> everywhere. </em> Not that there are a <em> lot </em> of fights or inmate bullshit anyway (Dean finds most of the guys in here just want to do their time and get the hell out), but if it’s gonna happen, it ain’t gonna be in this hall. Can’t be on edge <em> all </em>the damn time, so sue him. </p><p>Dean’ll blame that later for the way he nearly runs headfirst into the last guy he wants to see at the moment. In the process of shoving two more cookies into his face, Dean’s shoulder collides roughly with someone coming the other way down the hall. He startles and then balks when he sees the head doc from yesterday go stumbling back, kept upright only by the cinderblock wall he slams into. </p><p>“Fuff,” Dean swears, his words muffled by the food in his mouth. He reaches out to offer a steadying hand before remembering himself, jerking it back before the doc can misinterpret. That’s all he needs—a night in AdSeg because he put his paws on the brass. <em> Awesome. </em>In his own defense, Dean raises his open palms and takes one giant step backward, the cookie wrapper crinkling helplessly between two fingers. </p><p>The doc—<em>Novak, </em> Dean’s brain supplies helpfully—doesn’t seem very bothered, though as he straightens, his sharp blue eyes dart over Dean from head-to-toe pretty fuckin’ shamelessly. If it was <em> anyone </em>else, Dean would think the guy was checking him out, but this is the dude who said no to the prison whore grinding all over him, so. Probably not.</p><p>He <em> did </em> smell nice though. Not that Dean wants or needs another dude all up on his shit, but Novak had that sexy, spicy, manly-scent thing happening. Dean used to love discovering that on another guy. <em> Slight </em> hint of fruit, too—maybe watermelon, maybe from a body wash, <em> barely </em>there and fuckin’ tempting. And the brief time they spent pressed together in Dean’s cell suggested that Novak is packing the kind of body Dean used to dig, too. </p><p>Briefly, Dean flashes back to his earlier thoughts about Tessa. Now, he can’t help but picture her standing next to Novak in that obscure dive somewhere. Her hair would be down, flowing over her shoulders, and Novak’s would be messy, like he just ran his fingers through it. Smoke and sweat would hang in the air, shots on the bar, pool cues snapping against balls in the background, noise overlaid with classic rock playing over a shitty sound system. From across the room, Dean would wink, they’d both blush, and maybe they could all—</p><p>“Dean?”  </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean replies, clearing his throat and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Sorry ‘bout that, I was—” It’s then he realizes that his occupied hand is still up in the air, and he jiggles the cookies a little, hoping to look both remorseful and innocuous. “Had some blood taken.” </p><p>“Ah,” Novak replies. The faintest hint of a smile tugs at his lips as he straightens his waistcoat, and Dean definitely does not notice the way it accentuates his taut, trim figure. “No harm done. These things happen.”</p><p>“Do they?” Dean blurts out, forgetting himself, at least until Novak raises an eyebrow. “I mean—sorry,” he amends. “Most guards would write somebody up for somethin’ like that, accident or not.”</p><p>Quirking his head to the side, Novak considers Dean carefully. “Do you want me to write you up?” </p><p>Dean shrugs. “Might get me a night of peace,” he muses. When Novak looks horrified, he quickly adds, “Joke. Just a joke. Sometimes...you know, human beings make those.” </p><p>“So I’ve heard,” Novak replies evenly, and now it’s <em> Dean </em> who can’t figure out whether that was supposed to be funny. This is fuckin’ weird. Something about this guy just unsettles Dean to his core, and it’s not <em> just </em>how good-looking he happens to be. Might be the nice smell, though. Not a whole lot of that to go around in the Bay, or any prison, from what he’s seen. Before Dean can say anything else, Novak pulls his ID from where it’s clipped to his dress pants and badges open the door next to him. </p><p>“My office,” he says pointedly, that tiny smile making an appearance again. It’s there and gone in an instant. </p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>“For our appointment tomorrow,” he clarifies. “Now you have no excuse. Don’t be late, Dean, I’m looking forward to speaking with you.” He disappears inside, leaving Dean alone in the hallway once again, feeling strangely stripped bare. Before he continues on, Dean checks out the name plate secured to the door of the room. It reads: <em> Dr. Castiel J. Novak, PhD. </em> Underneath his name, two words are printed: <em> Prison Psychologist. </em></p><p>“Castiel,” Dean reads aloud, rolling the name around in his mouth. “Weird.” He tries not to think about how well it suits the guy, focusing instead on how he can use the vibe that’s flowing between them to get out of doing any real self-work. Hell, maybe he still has a shot of seducing <em> Castiel </em>after all. Can’t expect him to talk if his mouth is already full. </p><p>Grinning to himself, Dean shakes his head and sets off down the hallway, stuffing the last two cookies in his mouth before dropping the wrapper in the trash. He brushes his hands together to rid them of crumbs. It’s not such a big deal, being the prison whore. After all, he at least has <em> something </em> going for him, <em> some </em>weapon he can wield where he’s otherwise powerless. Not his fault that people’s priorities shift when they see his face. Might as well use that shit to his advantage.</p><p>Dean gives it a week until he has <em> Castiel </em>wrapped around his finger. </p><p>***</p><p>One thing Dean knows he’s unquestionably lucky to have access to at the Bay is the yard. As far as he knows and can imagine, there’s <em> no </em> prison rec space like it in the world. Well—maybe like, <em> Alcatraz, </em> just by nature of being in the middle of the water or whatever. Even there, though, that’s just the view. No <em> way </em>the actual digs were even half as nice. </p><p>This is where the whole “Club Fed” reputation really comes into play—in the unique grounds of this particular prison. The building is a U-shape, with the bottom of the “U” containing the hallway Dean just came from. The side that houses the library and Novak’s office has windows facing inward to the yard, while the other side of that hallway has no windows at all. In the unsecured portion of that wing (through several sets of locked doors), there’s reception, visitation, the Warden’s office, and a bunch of other admin shit that faces out to the (comparatively boring) parking lot.</p><p>Both sides of the “U” are residential blocks—two stories, housing three units on each floor plus a communal shower room. The blocks are identical, except for the lower level of the left wing, where Dean is assigned to H2. H2, along with H1, shares space with the cafeteria, instead of a third housing unit. That doesn’t suck, being that close to food (however questionable the quality). </p><p>All in all, the living conditions are okay. The laundry is Dean’s <em> least </em>favorite place to be, since it’s down in the basement, but the yard—</p><p>The yard is his goddamn <em> favorite.  </em></p><p>He heads there now, still annoyed that the trip to medical cut into his time outside. Especially when the rain could start back up at any second and force them all back in before Dean even gets one breath of fresh air. He hurries a little faster and gets told by a guard to “slow the hell down, Winchester,” for his trouble.</p><p>With work hours over and what amounts to “free time” essentially on tap, the vibe in the compound is as relaxed as it gets. A few guards linger in the halls as he passes, but most of them are kicked back in the various observation pods built into the secure spaces. In there, they lounge around watching TV or reading books, basically pretending to check the monitors or care about anything that’s happening in and around the prison. </p><p>When the compound is open, all of the prisoners are able to walk freely between housing units and recreational areas. Some places—like the library—open only on a schedule, but if you <em> really </em>want something, there’s always a palm to grease that can get you what you need.</p><p>Not that Dean’s in the habit of paying off guards to change out his book supply, but he <em> could. </em>If he wasn’t sending every extra penny he can scrape home to Sam, anyway. Hell, if Crowley didn’t keep his commissary account flush, Dean wouldn’t even have deodorant. He doesn’t fucking deserve it, nevermind luxuries, but again, here he is. Crowley has a certain way of doing things, and part of Dean’s deal includes that perk.</p><p>The metal double doors to the yard are locked, but Dean only has to stand in front of them for a second before the guard sitting in the secure room off of the exit’s antechamber notices him. She picks up her radio and lets the brass outside know that he’s waiting and that she’s opening the doors. Dean waves half-heartedly, already hyper-focused on where he’s going and with no brain-space left for prison in his head.</p><p>The buzzer sounds and the lock clicks, the guard standing just outside pulling it open wide like Dean’s the damn Queen of England herself. </p><p>“05152008, coming out!” </p><p>Totally unnecessary announcement, since no one cares (or reacts) and Dean’s the least threatening loser on the planet right now. Well, just so long as no one gets in between him and his rec time. All he wants to do is lift some weights and listen to the goddamn ocean for a few.</p><p>Stepping outside into the cool but beautifully refreshing autumn air, Dean takes a moment to just close his eyes and turn his face to the sky. It’s getting chillier by the day now, and soon, being out here won’t feel nearly as pleasant. Dean’s not looking forward to that day at all, though he knows he’ll still come. After all, this is the closest he can get to freedom—a little cold isn’t going to be the thing that takes that away. </p><p>For now, he’ll enjoy the more mild weather while it lasts. A little sun would help, but beggars can’t be choosers.</p><p>Opening his eyes, Dean glances around the enormous stretch of concrete space. He takes everything in, takes inventory of the inmates present, just like he always does. The yard is enclosed by the prison’s wings on three sides, but the fourth is wide open and looks out over the beach and the ocean beyond. The only thing separating the inmates from <em> getting </em> to the water is a four-foot cement wall with twelve-foot fencing and barbed wire built directly into it. The way it’s constructed, the barrier is no more climbable or susceptible to escape than any other part of the prison, but it <em> feels </em>like an illicit glimpse into the outside world. </p><p>It feels like freedom.</p><p>Almost instinctively, Dean drifts closer to it, to the break in the otherwise endless stretches of gray concrete and metal. To the smell of salt and the sound of the waves, angry from today’s storm, crashing up onto the sand. </p><p>Around him, the other prisoners mill about the yard, caught up in doing the same thing he is and generally paying Dean no mind. Far across the yard, Dean spots Crowley holding court at a picnic table, plotting and planning God knows what terrible thing, or maybe just swapping commissary snacks. With him, one thing is as likely as the other.</p><p>Everyone else is just—relaxing. Dean kinda gets it, why someone would build a prison here, especially one where <em> most </em> people aren’t interested in causing problems or trying to escape. There’s a calming sort of vibe that the ocean instills just by existing, and that’s virtually invaluable in a setting like this, one that’s charged by nature. Plus, the yard itself equals the ability to move around and blow off steam—it’s just a <em> good </em>combination, as far as Dean is concerned.</p><p>There’s more than enough to do out here, as well. Better and more variety, more <em> choice, </em> than anywhere else in the prison. There’s a fenced-off workout area, with all of the expected weights and equipment, chin-up bars, etcetera. There’s basketball court, a tennis court, even a fucking <em> bocce </em> area, offering a complete set of balls for the game, and Dean has <em> questions </em>about that. One of those suckers gets into the wrong hands and the side of someone’s head is never gonna look the same. </p><p>The Bay is weird that way. Some things are so damn strict just on the <em> off </em> chance someone might even <em> consider </em> taking advantage. Then there’s the flip side, where bocce ball sets are left out for anyone with a random gripe to slip into a sock and wreck someone’s entire year. Doesn’t really matter that no one <em> has </em>yet, doesn’t matter that most of them are serving time for nonviolent crimes, Dean knows what these assholes are capable of first-fucking-hand. </p><p>All it takes is <em> one. </em></p><p>He pushes that thought aside, eyes focused on the waves.</p><p>Moving towards them, Dean bypasses the workout area for now. Just like every other day, he’ll come back to it in a little bit. The yard stays open ‘til dusk, weather-permitting. This is part of his routine: day in and day out, same thing over and over again; wash, rinse, and repeat. It might be the best part, but it’s still the <em> same, </em>and Dean would be lying if tried to say that even these brief moments of being close to freedom don’t still feel frustrating because of that. </p><p>He misses being able to jump in his car and just take off for a few hours, get out of the city and tear up some country roads. Misses being able to sit at a bar and order what he feels like, instead of choking down whatever slop was cheapest to buy in bulk this month. Misses having a midnight snack that isn’t prepackaged bullcrap or ramen made with questionable sink water. Misses his own damn clothes, and choosing what to wear in the mornings, meager as his options might be. </p><p>He brushes hands over the bare skin of his forearms now—fucking Deacon distracted him, made him forget to grab his hoodie from his cell. It’s not cold enough to consider relinquishing even a second of outside time to go and retrieve it now, but it’s not exactly comfortable, either. The hair on his arms stands up in protest, and Dean hugs himself a little tighter.</p><p>Arriving at the fence, he reluctantly lets his biceps go in order to reach out a hand and curl fingers around the freezing metal of the chain-links. Three hundred yards away, maybe less, the tide crashes damp and foamy onto seaweed-strewn, light brown sand. Dean looks on forlornly, watching the sweep of each wave flow in and back out, in and back out, as predictable as the sun, and yet somehow, slightly different every time.</p><p>It soothes him, slows his heartbeat and his breathing until it’s in sync with the motion, and Dean <em> calms.  </em></p><p>Sometimes, when the wind is particularly feisty, it blows curling tracts of sand through the prison’s fencing. They’ll stretch across the dark cement that makes up the majority of the yard, accumulating in small piles against walls and in corners. Dean is always quick to get his hands into it before the guards make them clean it up, sifting the coarse grains through his fingers and imagining that he’s sitting out on the beach. </p><p>What he wouldn’t give to get his toes in that sand, just for a few minutes. He closes his eyes again, feels the salt-sticky breeze in his face, and inhales deeply. <em> Yeah, </em> he thinks, and if he imagines hard enough, he can almost see it. <em> Sam would dig a beach vacation, </em> he decides, smiling a little. <em> Just him, me, couple of them little umbrella drinks. Matching Hawaiian shirts, obviously. Some hula girls.  </em></p><p>In Dean’s mind, the hula girls spontaneously morph from blurry placeholders into the familiar faces of Tessa and <em> Castiel fucking Novak, </em> and Dean’s never opened his eyes so fast. There’s nothing about those two worlds that he wants to merge, that he’d <em> ever </em> dream of taking with him once he’s finally free of this place. It’s one thing to fantasize about picking up a couple of hot people that he’s actually attracted to, but the—the <em> toes in the sand </em> thing is his <em> dream, </em>the light at the end of the tunnel Dean holds onto when he needs help making it through the darkest parts of the night.</p><p>And not for nothing, but that dream is for <em> if </em>he ever gets free of this place, if he even makes it out alive. Some days, Dean’s not so sure that’ll be the case. If it weren’t for Sam’s safety being on the line…</p><p>Dean shakes his head and reluctantly turns away from the beach and the endless expanse of open ocean stretching out into infinity. Dreams of what comes next might be holding him together, but Dean still has to live in reality. And this prison, this <em> life—</em>this is his. This is what he gets. No amount of wishing or faith in something greater that never gave <em> one </em> single fuck about him is ever, <em> ever </em> going to change that. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Dean and Cas have their first therapy session, Cas pushes and Dean pushes back, no one goes home satisfied.</p><p>Seriously if y'all don't listen to this song by the end of this fic, I will have COMPLETELY FAILED: <a href="https://youtu.be/HTdKfd4q8qc">Something Better by Minke</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I, uh, walked into a door.”<br/>“Ah,” Castiel replies sagely. “Would that be the same door that’s blackmailing you into prison sex work?” <br/>“Ooh, damn, Cas, right out of the gate,” Dean retorts, but he doesn’t sound upset. In fact, his eyes are twinkling and he looks semi-amused, sitting there with his elbow resting on the back of the couch. Condensation from the ice pack has already smudged whatever cheap makeup Dean dabbed on his face, and the blue-purple Castiel guessed was hiding underneath is beginning to peek through.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you again to @coinofstone for betaing.</p><p>I'm answering comments tonight--it's been a very rough week.</p><p>Chapter warnings (spoilers and also, these are EXTRA. None of these are that bad, I'm just being cautious):<br/>--&gt;Cas digs into Dean's past via a third party w/o his permission<br/>--&gt;Dean dresses seductively and sits in Cas' lap in an attempt to seduce him. He is unsuccessful, but Castiel definitely notices his body, and he lets Dean get further physically than perhaps he should in order to make a point.<br/>--&gt;references to blackmail and criminal activity<br/>--&gt;Castiel manipulating Dean a little bit (using his privileges as leverage) to get him to talk. He does not have bad intentions and is trying to help, but this could certainly be seen as cruel.</p><p>if I missed anything, pls let me know.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Inside the officers’ breakroom, Castiel stares down at the cream swirling away into his fourth cup of coffee and runs a mental risk/benefit analysis for actually drinking it. On the one hand, in theory, he needs all the caffeine he can get. For whatever reason, this appointment with Dean has turned into something much more in his head than it should be, than it <em> is. </em> That doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with <em> Dean </em>(or Castiel’s ethically questionable attraction to him), but is more regarding what he’s learned during the time since they met.</p><p>In addition to using the monitors to observe Crowley, his minions, and Dean himself go about their daily activities, Castiel holds another ace in his back pocket. The thing about prison is that the longer you stay, the more it genuinely <em> feels </em>like a bubble to those inside of it. An isolated pocket-world that operates solely under its own rules, and that nothing existing outside of the sphere can touch. Even the administrative staff can fall prey to this mentality sometimes, however unintentionally. </p><p>Without a doubt, Castiel is sure that concept factored into Naomi’s decision to recruit him into the fold, and he sees no point in waiting to play this particular hand.</p><p>Over the past two days, Castiel has not ceased in his efforts to dig up Dean’s past, to find out whether his theory about Dean being the key to unraveling the Crowley mess has any merit. One (of many) things that Dean got dead wrong during their initial encounter was Castiel’s status as a newly-graduated, dick-waving ingenue. In fact, he’s only <em> here </em> at the Bay for having made a name for himself already, for being damn good at what he does and <em> proving </em>it.</p><p>But that isn’t of import. What <em>does </em>matter is that on the road towards making that name, Castiel has also managed to turn more than one former inmate into an ally. Violence and criminality go hand-in-hand with mob rule, and dismantling that is what Castiel <em>does.</em> It’s what he lives and breathes. He’s helped more than one prisoner break free from what surely felt (to them) like an impossible situation. </p><p>How was he able to do that? That answer is simple. It comes back to one thing, and one thing only. Leverage. </p><p>Leverage (which is what all cults, gangs, and crime syndicates use to retain otherwise reluctant members) keeps people invested. Sometimes for positive reasons (the promise of money, power, or something else), but often for fear. It’s just that <em> everyone </em> seems to forget that <em> leverage </em> of any kind <em> always </em> has one major weakness: it can be counterbalanced. <em> Always. </em></p><p>The only question is whether the <em> options </em>to do so are worth the price, and when they’re not, if there are better, safer alternatives. </p><p>In Dean’s case, Castiel has to discover what Crowley is holding over his head, and he’s experienced enough to know that Dean may not be honest with him when he asks. In fact, it’s more probable than not that he won’t be—clearly, if whatever it is holds enough value and importance to Dean to send him willingly down this rabbit hole, Dean is not going to give it up that easily.</p><p>Which is precisely where Castiel’s contacts come in. </p><p>Last night, after his shift (and his run and still more leftovers), Castiel had curled up in bed and made a phone call. </p><p>Even as he was dialing Castiel maintained his reservations, but Cain <em> owes </em> Castiel. Previously imprisoned for crimes he <em> definitely </em> committed but weren’t necessarily his fault, Cain had zero chance of seeing life outside bars ever again before his prison psychologist showed up and intervened on his behalf. Not that it was nearly as easy at it sounds in retrospect—Cain not only had ties, but was the <em> founder </em> of the Knights, an organized crime syndicate that was <em> extremely </em>invested in keeping him—but Castiel is an expert in rebellion.</p><p>After nearly a year of working together, testimony from Castiel at Cain’s parole hearing, and a few deals cut with the state attorney for information, Cain walked out of Pontiac Correctional Center a <em> very </em>free man. </p><p>But Cain is who he is, and Castiel was never under any delusions regarding that. He wonders often whether he’s the only person working <em> for </em> the prisoners he encounters within the system that sees <em> and </em> genuinely empathizes with all the shades of gray a person can hold. Cain, for instance, can simultaneously be someone who was unfairly imprisoned, who has both the potential <em> and </em>the drive to do better, and a person who will almost certainly go on to do questionable things once he’s free. </p><p>Which is why Castiel keeps in touch—he does care about his former patients and badly wants success for all of them. At the very least, he can provide an outlet to Cain as someone who knows him, someone who understands and (mostly) doesn’t judge. Except for when he <em> needs </em>to be judged, which are the times Castiel is concerned about hearing from him, anyway.</p><p>It seems to have worked out—Castiel doesn’t know what exactly it is that Cain does these days, and he isn't sure that he wants to. He is aware that Cain maintains a low profile and resists allying himself with any group in particular, though, which were concepts they worked on together in therapy. From what he’s heard, when Cain <em> does </em>get involved, he finds himself filling the vigilante role more often than the villain, and that’s progress enough.</p><p>Against all odds, Cain seems to have managed to do exactly what it is Dean <em> needs </em>to accomplish, and thus, he’s the best person to talk to about it. In Castiel’s book, anyway—he knows plenty of former supervisors who would disagree. But it’s not only the personal development and self-work piece Castiel is interested in here, either.</p><p>Cain has <em> also </em> (equally against all odds) retained many friends and contacts that Castiel himself would have expected to be a lost cause when he abandoned the Knights. People who are still very much <em> in, </em> who know things and have connections that simply aren’t accessible otherwise. Perhaps this is not the most above-board thing for him to do as a professional, perhaps Cain isn’t the most <em> savory </em>person on the planet at all—but Castiel is in the business of saving lives and souls, not playing politics about it.</p><p>He’ll leave that bit to Naomi.</p><p>At the end of the day, Cain has channels to dig into that Castiel doesn’t, and Castiel trusts him to do so in a way that won’t land either of them in hot water. Cain is still on parole, after all, and he has much more to lose.</p><p>Once Castiel got him on the phone, he wound up doing the vast majority of the talking, despite initial resolutions to the contrary. He <em> meant </em> to check-in, to give Cain a chance to vent or seek support, whatever he might need. It’s just that Cain has always been a man of few words, and Castiel had much to explain. For every minute Castiel talked, he received perhaps <em> one </em>word or grunt in return, but that wasn’t exactly new. Still, by the end of the call, Castiel was wondering if he’d made a mistake in cashing in this chit, since Cain had gone completely and totally silent.</p><p>In fact, Castiel had been <em> right </em> on the verge of backtracking and calling it off—letting Cain off the hook—when the man finally cleared his throat and spoke up. “Message received, Doc. If there’s something to know about this Winchester kid, then I will find it out. And, uh, Crowley. That was the name you said? The big man on campus?”</p><p>“Fergus Crowley,” Castiel affirmed. He frowned, shifting in his nest of blankets. Something in Cain’s reply felt off, and Castiel couldn’t help but be curious about the the subtle strain in his voice. He wished very much that he could see Cain’s face—psychoanalyzing someone is <em> much </em>more difficult without context—microexpressions, body language, and the like. </p><p>“I’ll get back to you.” </p><p>The phone went dead before Castiel could say anything else, but on the other hand, he supposed he’d said more than enough. Even as he clicked off the light and sunk down into the soft, welcoming bedding, it was difficult to settle. The mix of worry and anxiety swirling around in his head, mixed up with curiosity and the desire to know <em> what </em>Cain might find out kept him up late into the night. </p><p>Hence the three cups of coffee he’s already inhaled and the fourth sitting in front of him now. Ultimately, Castiel takes a deep breath and blows it out before lifting the mug to his lips and taking a deep swig. For all of this institution’s faults and issues, one thing the Bay does not lack is good coffee. In the admin section, anyway. </p><p>Briefly, Castiel wonders if Dean would like a cup, and although he decides that he probably would (very few inmates would not), his approach towards Dean today is of particular importance. Sabotage from his own subconscious aside, Dean is a special case. Between his attitude, the front he puts on in general, and the role he’s apparently severely internalized as the “prison whore,” boundaries and roles are going to be of the utmost importance in their relationship.</p><p>Castiel knows that he must walk a very difficult line with this patient. He has to be nonthreatening and accessible, friendly in the correct moments and tough in others, but also inflexible in his own beliefs and his personal limits. Dean must learn to see him as someone that he can confide in and <em> trust, </em> but not someone he can walk all over. Any slight deviation, <em> any </em>loss of control, and their sessions will very quickly become pointless.</p><p>If that happens, Castiel may not get what he needs to unravel Crowley’s hold over the Bay, and Dean will almost certainly remain embroiled in the center of the entire mess. </p><p>If Naomi asks or there’s any sort of official report requested, Castiel will stick with talking about that first part. </p><p>He turns around with his mug and comes face to face with the Warden herself, staring at him as if she can somehow see what Castiel is thinking. Now that is a very unpleasant thought, for more than one reason.</p><p>“Good morning, Castiel,” she begins, and without quite knowing why, Castiel braces to be chastised or reprimanded. It’s a weird reflex, but he’s found that Naomi inspires the student-in-a-principal’s-office feeling, however far past that they all may be. Instead though, she attempts what she clearly thinks passes for a friendly smile as she moves around him to the coffee maker. Without much choice in the matter, Castiel awkwardly shuffles aside.</p><p>“Good morning, Warden,” he dutifully replies. His eyes dart for the door, wanting to make a break for it but not entirely certain that would be viewed as either polite or professional. </p><p>“How are things coming along? One of the night guards intercepted some narcotics being smuggled through the kitchen this morning. They were in the early delivery, hidden inside a crate of potatoes. I assume this isn’t the first time, however, the amount we recovered was...small. I can’t help but wonder if it was a red herring.” </p><p>
  <em> Right.  </em>
</p><p>Castiel frowns as Naomi turns to face him, stirring a single packet of sweet and low into her otherwise black coffee. He tries not to make a face—that looks disgusting. Tearing his gaze away, he forces himself to focus.</p><p>“Yes, that—that does seem suspicious.”</p><p>Naomi lifts a hand, expectant. “So, in your professional opinion, you agree? This was some sort of deterrent, meant for us to find?”</p><p>Sighing, Castiel drags a hand over his face before nodding. “Probably,” he agrees. “From what I’ve seen of Crowley thus far, and the records I’ve, well, <em> not </em>been able to trace the way I’d like—I don’t think he’d be so careless. Generally speaking, if Crowley doesn’t want you to find something, I doubt that you will. Whatever his real supply chains are, you can likely be assured that they’re all intact. Although.” Castiel pauses and sips from his mug as Naomi waits, continuing to stare at him in that unnerving way of hers while he thinks. “It is possible that he’s rubbing it in your face. That would fit his M.O. entirely as well.” </p><p>Nodding, Naomi mimics his action with the mug before slumping against the counter, the least uptight Castiel has ever seen her. She looks frazzled, exhausted, but only for a second before she’s straightening up again, tucking it all away behind curt professionalism. “Those were my instincts as well.”</p><p>“Out of pure curiosity, what was the name of the guard who found the stash?”</p><p>Naomi frowns. “Alastair, I believe.”</p><p>“Noted. Anyway, I should probably—”</p><p>“Castiel,” Naomi calls out as he heads for the door. He turns to find her looking somewhat hesitant, also unusual. “You know that it—it’s good to have friends. To engage yourself socially outside of your work.” He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t immediately respond. “I worry,” she continues. “About my staff members who don’t do those things. Humor your boss and join me for a drink later? My office, after you’ve finished for the day.” </p><p>Somewhat confused, Castiel does his best not to look as if he’d rather be doing quite literally anything else when he nods and forces a smile. “Of course, Warden. I will...look forward to it.” </p><p>Naomi’s eyes follow him as he exits through the break room door.</p><p>***</p><p>Dean knocks on Castiel’s office door at exactly one p.m., right on time. Castiel’s prepared—his office has windows that look out into the hallway, and he’s decided to keep the blinds closed during any one-on-one sessions with the inmates. It’s of particular importance with Dean, that he sees Castiel won’t be seduced or manipulated, even behind closed doors. That this is a space in which he is truly welcome and safe. </p><p>Following that same train of thought, Castiel leaves the blinds of the windows that look out over the yard wide open. He knows from observation that the yard seems to be a place that’s taken on that “welcoming and safe” position in Dean’s mind already. He hopes that perhaps being able to visualize it directly will help. Transference isn’t always a negative thing.</p><p>Before he tucks his silenced phone away into his desk drawer, Castiel glances down at the string of texts he’s already received from Cain. It’s a significant amount of information, more than he expected and much sooner, at that. What’s more, Cain closes the exchange with an unsolicited promise of additional insight to follow, though he caveats vaguely that there are, <em> “things I need to check into first.”  </em></p><p>Castiel tries his best to read the final reply back without shivering from the ominous undertone, but he can’t quite shake the unsettled feeling Cain’s words leave behind.</p><p>His mind is swirling, though. There is <em> so </em> much he needs to ask Dean, to help him be able to connect the dots more fully. He has to figure out a way to provoke Dean into sharing, it’s imperative. It’s also energizing, knowing what Castiel knows now, because it means there <em> is </em>a path forward, a way to potentially release Dean from this situation he’s found himself stuck in. The only obvious problem is that Castiel can’t admit to knowing any of it—at least not yet—lest he lose Dean’s trust from the jump.</p><p>No, Castiel needs to proceed with caution. He has to ask the right questions, coax out the right answers—<em>much </em> easier when you know what they are, but still very much a process that will take time. Time Castiel is impatient to skip directly over. Dean has to believe that sharing certain things with Castiel is <em> his </em>idea, can’t ever know that Castiel knew any of it in advance, before he was ready. </p><p>A fine line, indeed.</p><p>The knock at his door comes again, and Castiel hastily shoves his drawer shut before making his way over. He grabs his cardigan from where it’s draped over his desk chair and shrugs it on as he goes. This sweater is perhaps the <em> least </em>attractive thing he owns—Castiel thinks it makes him look like an octogenarian with questionable original teeth—which is the point. </p><p>Dean’s leaning provocatively against the frame of the door when Castiel opens it, arms crossed over a white t-shirt, prison-issued scrub top slung carelessly over his shoulder. Castiel is (in a way) relieved to see that his instincts are dead on thus far, being that Dean is doing the exact <em> opposite </em>thing he is, in regards to his appearance. </p><p>It’s precisely what Castiel expected.</p><p>The t-shirt Dean is wearing is at <em> least </em>one full size too small—whoever in linen issued him the piece should be remanded—and it really shows where the fabric pulls taut around his ample biceps and the firm stretch of his abdomen. The cheap-quality material is almost transparent from countless washes, so much so that its appearance on Dean is nearly obscene. Castiel’s heard more than one passing comment from various inmates about Dean’s “perky nipples,” and his mouth goes a little dry when he sees them on full display. </p><p>Fortunately, he mentally prepared for this, <em> knew </em> that it was a near-certainty considering Dean’s behavior, but once again, technical cognitive awareness and the human condition find themselves at war. Despite that, Castiel is a well-trained soldier, and he knows how to fight. Castiel <em> also </em>knows (having observed him for several days now) that this is not how Dean normally dresses—this is a calculated display for him, the beginnings of an attempt at a power play. It’s his move next, he’s in full control.</p><p>Even still, inwardly, Castiel sighs and hopes that his subconscious is not taking notes. </p><p>“Hey. What’s up, Doc?” Dean drawls. His outfit distracts Castiel <em> just </em>enough that he’s delayed in looking at his face, but when he glances up, he immediately does a double-take. </p><p>“There’s concealer around your left eye,” he says, and Dean’s cocky smirk drops into a scowl almost instantly. “Dean,” Castiel persists, reaching out to wrap fingers around Dean’s wrist and tug him inside the room, a gesture to which Dean visibly flinches, although he docily allows himself to be led. It’s a painful thing for Castiel to witness. He wonders how many times per day Dean has to force himself to do that very thing, that it’s become a reflex. His <em> true </em>personality would clearly have him doing the opposite, just on principle.</p><p>“I apologize,” Castiel says quickly, retracting his hand and raising it before motioning in the direction of the talk-therapy set-up he has pushed up against the exterior windows. There are two cushioned chairs and a long couch surrounding a coffee table in a half-circle. It’s a <em> much </em>nicer (and more risky) situation than Castiel’s ever had at his disposal, more akin to a private therapist’s office than a correctional institution. But then again, most things at the Bay are like that. </p><p>Dean looks a little surprised when he’s let go, which, that’s one point in Castiel’s “win” column for today. So far, he’s not screwing this up completely, however Dean’s choice of outfit may have temporarily short-circuited his upstairs brain. Unfortunately for Dean, though, tricks like that only work once. It won’t happen again. </p><p>“It’s nothing,” Dean mumbles, dropping his head down as he passes by. He flops heavily onto the couch and relaxes with his legs spread, glancing around the room while Castiel busies himself closing the door. </p><p>“Where did you even get concealer?”</p><p>“Commissary,” Dean replies defensively, folding his arms across his chest once again. Castiel takes note of that. Bodies often speak louder than words, and Dean’s is broadcasting loud and clear that he’s defensive, that <em> he </em>feels he has something to hide. “Weirdly, they sell tampons, too—I think your supply guy might’ve gotten his wires crossed at some point.”</p><p>“I’ll look into it,” Castiel says distractedly. “Perhaps there’s somewhere here who was assigned female at birth. That’s not—what happened?”</p><p>Dean narrows his eyes, glaring back in what Castiel can only describe as a challenging manner. “What, you walk in on me blowing one dude, you give me a pass on a write-up <em> one </em>time and suddenly we’re best friends?” </p><p>Castiel’s silent for a moment, squinting down at Dean in his own way, but he breaks their little stand-off with a dismissive shrug. “Alright,” he says, rounding his desk and opening the large drawer on the bottom left. “You win.” </p><p>Naturally, Dean looks even more confused, but Castiel remains silent as he pulls out the first-aid kit that’s tucked in there. Flipping it open, he extracts the included cold pack before shoving the rest of the box back into the drawer. Halfway to the chair that faces Dean on the couch, he hesitates. Instead of continuing to activate the pack, he looks up and meets Dean’s eyes instead. </p><p>“Here,” Castiel says, tossing it over somewhat impulsively. “I’m sure that you need to punch something more than I do.” </p><p>Dean fumbles but ultimately catches it, plastic crinkling in his fist. He then alternates blinking blankly down at the ice pack and blinking over at Castiel, watching as Castiel sits down with a mixture of confusion and suspicion written all over his face. </p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says with a sigh, retrieving his legal pad and pen from where he left them sitting on the coffee table. (<em>Also </em> a calculated move—whether Dean thinks him stupid or simply trusting, leaving anything that could be wielded as a weapon shows that <em> he </em>doesn’t view Dean as a threat.) Castiel’s fairly certain Dean didn’t even register that, though, too busy turning the ice pack over in his hands and trying to appear nonchalant. “If you’re going to admit to the concealer, why are you bothering to deny that there’s something to conceal?” </p><p>“I’m not,” Dean huffs, punching his fist into the pack he’s abruptly stopped tossing and catching in his palm. It takes him three tries before the little ball inside pops. “I, uh, walked into a door.” He straightens up and grins before shaking the bag to activate and then slapping it to the side of his face. That’s followed by a poorly-concealed wince that Castiel tactically chooses to ignore. </p><p>“Ah,” Castiel replies sagely. “Would that be the same door that’s blackmailing you into prison sex work?” </p><p>“Ooh, damn, Cas, right out of the gate,” Dean retorts, but he doesn’t sound upset. In fact, his eyes are twinkling and he looks semi-amused, sitting there with his elbow resting on the back of the couch. Condensation from the ice pack has already smudged whatever cheap makeup Dean dabbed on his face, and the blue-purple Castiel guessed was hiding underneath is beginning to peek through.</p><p>He pretends not to see it, for now.</p><p>“Cas?” he asks instead, raising an eyebrow. </p><p>Dean just shrugs. “Didn’t strike me as one of those title-crazy dicks. You know, the ones that jerk off to their diplomas in bed at night.”</p><p>Biting back a smile, Castiel nods. “I am not sexually aroused by academia in general, no.”</p><p>Dean wiggles his eyebrows, and once again, Castiel clocks a barely-suppressed wince. “Yeah? What, uh, what does get you hot?” Castiel just tilts his head to the side and doesn’t answer, but Dean isn’t so easily dissuaded. He holds up his free hand in an “L”, closing his left eye as he considers Castiel between his thumb and forefinger. It’s difficult to not smile at, but Castiel manages. “Let me guess, then. I’m getting...equal opportunity flirt. Ace, maybe. Non-binary? It’s definitely something like that, something new-age-y. Whatever it is, no fuckin’ way you’re straight.” </p><p>“Why do you care so much about what I identify as, Dean?” </p><p>Shrugging, Dean drops the hand pretending to be a camera and lets his head loll back on the couch. The cold pack drops, going by the wayside to drip a damp spot into Castiel’s cushions. Dean tucks both hands behind his head and props his left ankle on his right knee, the very picture of devil-may-care attitude. </p><p>“Don’t care,” he says. “Just curious. Not much going on in this dump. You’re fresh blood. Plus, you’re like, <em> the </em> sexiest thing to ever pass through those metal detectors. Give a locked-up guy a break. After all, I gotta at least find out if I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree,” he finishes, flashing Castiel a <em> very </em> pretty smile, complete with batted lashes. Castiel wonders how long he practiced that move in front of the mirror, or if Dean is truly <em> so </em>self-assured, underneath it all.</p><p>“Of that, I can assure you I’m very certain you are,” Castiel tells him. He keeps his tone kind but firm, under no allusions that Dean will even pretend to hear—never mind accept—it. </p><p>As anticipated, Dean rolls his eyes and shoves himself up off of the couch, closing the distance between them in less than three strides. It’s a long enough period of time for Castiel to see what’s coming and to stand, but he opts to stay where he is. He does force a look of surprise onto his face as he leans back, allowing Dean to step in and straddle his lap.</p><p>Up close, Dean’s just as ripped as Castiel remembers, and he smells quite pleasant—clean, like soap and baby powder and the shitty prison deodorant. Despite the quality of his life, Dean clearly takes care of himself, which is encouraging. If Castiel could access his notepad from where it’s currently tucked behind Dean’s back, he’d write as much onto the page.</p><p>“This is inappropriate,” he says instead.</p><p>“Yeah, Doc, that’s the point,” Dean murmurs, circling his hips in a practiced manner. It <em> could </em>all be very distracting, if Castiel wasn’t ready for it. If he wasn’t simultaneously watching Dean’s face go slack and his eyes glaze over as he disappears into his own head. As it is, all Castiel can do is feel terribly sad for him. </p><p>“No,” he says firmly, <em> loudly, </em>left hand gripping Dean’s hip to hold him still, right cupping his face and dragging it down. Misunderstanding what Castiel wants, Dean lets himself be pulled, parting his lips like he’s anticipating a kiss. “You don’t listen very well,” Castiel remarks, tipping Dean’s head to the side so that he can better visualize the bruise around his eye. </p><p>In one smooth motion—that he can thank all that running and those thousands of <em> criminally </em>excruciating lunges on the beach for—Castiel stands and pivots, taking Dean with him. Flailing, Dean manages to get the balls of his feet on the ground but not reclaim his balance, and Castiel is quick to use that against him. He spins them both around,  dumping Dean unceremoniously into his recently-vacated chair, all the while maintaining a vice-like grip on Dean’s chin.</p><p>“You should see Tessa about this,” Castiel muses, still trying to tip Dean’s face into the best possible lighting. The bruise has some angry-looking redness in the center, right near Dean’s temple, which could be concerning. “She may wish to obtain an x-ray.”</p><p>Dean must not like Castiel towering above him, because he digs in his heels and pushes backward fiercely. The sudden force sends his chair skidding several feet across the floor with a cringeworthy squeak, and Dean stands up quickly, posture more defensive than Castiel’s ever seen it. </p><p>“Dude, who <em> are </em>you?” Dean bursts out angrily, face turning red. </p><p>“I’m Castiel,” Castiel replies simply. “I’m an Angel of the Lord.” Dean just stares at him blankly, of course, so he explains. “That’s a joke. I am named after one, though.”</p><p>After a charged moment of silence, Dean bursts out laughing. He scrubs both hands through his hair and turns to face the windows, staring out over the yard and the ocean with blatant hunger. “God, what am I doing?” he mutters, hands dropping to his sides in defeat. “Great. First I land myself in prison, then I try to proposition an angel.” He chuckles bitterly. “If I wasn’t going to Hell before.” </p><p>“In all fairness, I did clarify that I am not actually an angel. No harm done and no need to damn yourself on my account.” </p><p>Dean glances over his shoulder, eyes darting back and forth across Castiel’s placid face like he’s trying to read his mind, to figure out if <em> he’s </em>the crazy one. </p><p>“Are you going to write me up?” </p><p>Slowly, Dean turns away from the window, and Castiel can’t tell if he looks more worried or more hopeful. He finds himself flashing back to what Dean said to him the hallway yesterday about the same thing—<em>might get me a night of peace. </em>“I—is there a reason I should?” </p><p>Dean’s mouth drops open and for a second, Castiel thinks he’s actually going to say something useful, something he can <em> use</em>. In the end, though, Dean just shakes his head. “‘Course not,” he retorts, pointing a finger in Castiel’s direction as he returns to the couch again. “And I’ll deny it if you suggest to anyone otherwise.”</p><p>Furrowing his brow, Castiel sits back down, too. He leans forward, though, keeping his palms up to show Dean that he’s listening. “I wouldn’t,” he says seriously, even though the insinuation was clearly rhetorical. “I’m not your enemy, Dean.” Dean just stares back, but Castiel doesn’t back down, doesn’t blink. Eventually, Dean relents, slumping back against the cushions and wiping his face with his hand.</p><p>“Jesus,” he says.</p><p>“Listen,” Castiel offers, the way he always planned to do. “I can see that you’re not ready to talk to me—to trust me—with your thoughts and feelings. I know that you think you’re here because of your reputation—and yes, that is partially true. I only wanted to make sure that you knew, Dean, that if you ever wanted to <em> stop, </em>then I am here to help. I can help, Dean, if you let me, but I fully understand why you would disbelieve that after all you’ve been through.” </p><p>Dean just snorts and shakes his head, averting his eyes. “Yeah, that’s real nice of you and all, Cas, but you can’t help me. No one can.” Abruptly, Dean’s head pivots sharply, and he’s glaring at Castiel through those skeptical, narrowed eyes. “You’re obviously a smart guy,” he adds. “You know who runs this place.” </p><p>“I do,” Castiel affirms. “I know a lot more than you may think.”</p><p>Dean’s expression shifts, and this one indicates that he may think he spoke too soon on the matter of Castiel’s intelligence. A little incredulously, he continues, “Then you know there’s no amount of <em> talking </em>that’s going to change jack shit. For me or for anyone here.” </p><p>“Because of Crowley,” Castiel offers, nonplussed.</p><p>“Crowley,” Dean agrees, spitting out the name like it tastes bad rolling around in his mouth.</p><p>“In that case,” Castiel proposes, settling back and casually crossing one of his legs over the other. “Let’s start there. Let’s not talk about you at all. Tell me about Crowley.” </p><p>“Ugh,” Dean groans, rubbing his palms over his thighs in obvious frustration. He pauses to raise an eyebrow. “This is confidential, right? Legally? You can’t tell anybody shit about what I say?” </p><p>“As long as you don’t confess to murder or try to use these sessions to commit a crime, or become a danger to yourself or others, no. And in those circumstances, my ability to disclose anything you said would be limited to direct relevance or I could lose my license. No offense, but you aren’t worth that risk.” Castiel offers him a small smile. </p><p>Dean’s already back to looking off into the distance, but he nods and squeezes his thighs with restless fingers. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. “Thought so. I’ve been doing some—some brushing up on law—legal shit for my trial. Lotta good it’ll do me, but I figured—maybe I wanna understand what they’re saying in there as they’re locking me away.” </p><p>Castiel ponders that for a moment and then adds, “I’m going to be honest with you, Dean. The sole reason I was brought to the Bay was to deal with Crowley. Specifically, the way he’s making the lives of those running this prison very difficult.” Dean snorts and Castiel takes a breath. “As such, I’m—there are parts of my job that are investigative. Like a detective, I’m not necessarily interested in the theoretical wrong-doings of those I interview, or those who might be doing them in Crowley’s name. That is to say, I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble but him.”</p><p>Dean’s jaw works, and he peers at Castiel sideways. “So...you’re saying what? If one of us—a patient—tells you stuff you might normally get someone into trouble over, you...what, won’t?” </p><p>Considering for a moment, Castiel nods. “That’s a fair explanation.”</p><p>“And I’m supposed to just believe you? Dude, I’m in prison because <em> everyone’s </em> a fucking liar. Everyone lies to <em> get </em> what they want, and if they don’t, slip ‘em some cash and they <em> will. </em> That’s <em> doubly </em> true where Crowley’s concerned, or haven’t you figured that out yet?"</p><p>“Fine,” Castiel says, as amenably as he can. “I can understand that, and you’re not wrong. But Dean, these sessions with me are mandatory, and they will not end early because you’re uncooperative. If you won’t even <em> try, </em>I’ll have to suspend some of your privileges. The yard, the library, the—”</p><p>“No,” Dean cuts him off, eyes wide. “Dude, that’s not fair.”</p><p>“This is <em> prison, </em>Dean, and the Warden has deemed your sessions with me important for your well-being.”</p><p>Abruptly furious, Dean jumps up off of the couch and stalks for the door, arm and back muscles flexing under his thin tee. “Fuck you, man. You want me to trust you? Threatening me isn’t—”</p><p>Castiel catches him by the arm, letting go just as soon as he touches, though that doesn’t stop Dean from yanking it away. The inmate whirls around, cheeks red and eyes shining, and gets right in Castiel’s face. He’s got a good inch or two on him in height, and Castiel struggles to stand firm, to not look remotely intimidated. In reality, his heart is thumping in his chest like he just finished a set of progressive sprints.</p><p>“I’m not,” Castiel says softly. “Threatening you. I’m just—”</p><p>“Showing me that I don’t have a choice,” Dean retorts, voice rough and tight. He’s furious and everything about his body language shows it, but for the first time since Castiel’s known Dean, he sounds <em> small</em>. </p><p>Without breaking eye contact, Castiel lifts his hand and gently grasps Dean’s elbow with the tips of his fingers. Not enough to move him if Dean doesn’t want to be moved, but merely a suggestion. “You <em> always </em> have a choice,” he implores. “As I was saying—if you aren’t ready to talk about <em> you, </em> let’s talk about Crowley. <em> Just </em>Crowley.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean asks suspiciously, his waterline looking especially full, but nothing spills over. </p><p>“Yes,” Castiel affirms. “You have no reason to believe me, but I intend to earn your trust, Dean. If and when you’re ready to discuss something more, I’ll be here. In the meantime, it would be equally as helpful to my mission to hear from one of Crowley’s inner circle.” While he knows full well that Dean isn’t necessarily that (and that it’s a risk to insinuate he is), Dean seems to accept the out as it’s offered to him. He allows Castiel to direct him back to the couch and sits down warily, posture much more closed off this time.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and blows it out, clapping his hands together between his knees. “Alright,” he says. “Whaddya wanna know?” </p><p>***</p><p>It turns out, once you get Dean going, he’s hard to stop. Over the next half hour, Castiel’s able to glean a <em> lot </em> more information about Crowley than he expected. Hopefully, between Dean’s perspective and the pieces that Cain is able to dig up, he can fashion an almost-complete picture. And if <em> Dean </em>needs to believe he’s doing all of this strictly in the name of taking down Crowley, well, he’s partly right. Except now more than ever, Castiel is determined to find a way to help him in the process.</p><p>“I know that Crowley’s arrival here at the Bay was before your time,” Castiel starts and Dean nods. “However, I’m assuming you know more than I do about what went down that day.”</p><p>At that, Dean hesitates. He’s talked so far about Crowley’s penchant for violence and quick retribution towards those who cross him as a Top Dog, with a palpable bitterness that allowed Castiel to read between the lines about the new mark decorating on his face. Mostly, he’s spoken of prison dynamics, the favor system, the drug trade. The closest Dean wandered towards talking about himself fell somewhere in there, when he all but described <em> himself </em>as currency in said favor system. </p><p>Castiel’s brimming with follow-up questions about that, but he forces himself to shut up and take what he’s given, at least for today. It’s far more than he expected for an initial session.</p><p>And <em> that </em> in and of itself reveals an important truth—Dean <em> wants </em>to talk, he just doesn’t feel that he can.</p><p>So his hesitation now is interesting. The question posed wasn’t about Dean at all, and Castiel isn’t entirely sure why he’s suddenly reluctant, but he can guess. “Nothing you say about this will get back to the Warden or to law enforcement,” he tries preemptively, and to his surprise, Dean nods. </p><p>“Guess it doesn’t matter,” Dean says, and Castiel doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart to the windows facing the yard. “But this is like, ratting, Cas. Snitching. It’s the worst damn thing a prisoner can do, talk to the brass about shit that goes down between <em> us.</em>” </p><p>“I understand, Dean,” Castiel says patiently. “And I remind you that whatever you say is unlikely to change the fact that I am bound by confidentiality laws.”</p><p>“Not gonna lie,” Dean continues, like he hasn’t even spoken. “It’s kind of nice to talk to someone. I mean, no one gives a fuck what I think, what I have to say in this place. Inmates or brass.” </p><p>Castiel just nods and then suggests, “You could simply tell me the commonly accepted version of events that went down after Crowley’s arrival. If you’re concerned. Things that would be impossible to pin on you, or any one person in general.” </p><p>Perhaps he should let this bit go, but the transfer of power after Crowley showed up is still somewhat of a question mark in Castiel’s mind, one he feels strangely drawn towards sorting out. There’s just something about how it happened that doesn’t make <em> sense. </em> The sticking point is, the Top Dog position is always taken by force, and this was no exception. Castiel’s been inside his fair share of prisons, and that is simply a fact of life that never varies. A challenge is physical, a fight that results in one Top Dog and one prisoner going to the infirmary, if not the hospital. It requires guards to look the other way, and at least a small group of prisoners to have the challenger’s back.</p><p>How did Crowley pull that off <em> so </em>quickly?</p><p>Still looking hesitant, Dean nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I—I mean, like I give a fuck what happens to these people, but the thing is, I’m stuck here until further notice. And no offense, Doc, ‘cause the library and the yard are the only things keeping my head on straight, but most of ‘em scare me a lot more than you do.” </p><p>Feeling slightly guilty, Castiel pretends to be writing on his pad, taking the coward’s way out on that one. Eventually, Dean talks.</p><p>“Lucifer was Top Dog here before Crowley. You probably know that. Everyone says he was a Grade-A douchebag, if you get what I mean. Earned every inch of that nickname, from what I hear. Ran a tight ship with the prisoners, though, which I guess the Warden probably liked. Anyway, like you said, I wasn’t there, but everyone tells the same story. Crowley wasn’t finished the strip search and nickel tour more than ten minutes before he was storming the Caf and throwing down the gauntlet.”</p><p>From Lucifer (real name: Nicolas Vaught)’s file, Castiel knows the mechanics of what came next. He and Crowley fought and Lucifer ended up in the hospital. It wasn’t a quick visit, either—he’s <em> still there</em>. In a medically-induced coma in the Neuro ICU, with a prognosis that suggests if and when he’s brought out of it, his body will be the prison that the Bay once was. Just reading the clinical account of his injuries made Castiel cringe—Crowley was ruthless, and he decimated Lucifer’s body without so much as a homemade shank.</p><p>There are no eyewitness statements from the guards, either, which isn’t terribly surprising. True, the politics of the prisoner power system have nothing to do with the brass—admin in general don’t care <em> which </em> criminal is in charge, unless and until that person becomes a problem for <em> them</em>—but to simply stand by while a brand-new prisoner started a massive fight? </p><p>Something is missing here.</p><p>“The guards?” Castiel prompts, when Dean beings to ramble on a tangent about Crowley’s fighting style that isn’t particularly useful at the moment. </p><p>“Huh? Oh, uh,” Dean grunts and scratches his head before shrugging. “I never asked, didn’t come up. We don’t really—that’s not something anyone on my end cares about in a situation like that.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Castiel hums, scratching his chin. “Perhaps.” </p><p>“I know it was—it was right after first lunch, ‘cause Crowley found him in the cafeteria. So, should’ve been two brass inside, minimum. One thing I did hear is that noon is early for intake. Usually new guys come later in the afternoon or evening. I dunno, can’t say I pay a whole lotta attention to that shit but, yeah. I got processed in right before dinner. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I was fuckin’ starving. Had to smell it for like an hour before I finally got through all the intake crap—not really something you forget.” </p><p><em> Crowley found him in the cafeteria. </em> What are the odds he’d know the prison well enough to <em> find </em> the cafeteria so quickly, never mind <em> know </em> that the Top Dog would be there—or who he was at all—without help? <em> About zero, </em>Castiel thinks. </p><p>That means one thing, for sure—there is at <em> least </em> one guard in Crowley’s pocket inside the Bay. Castiel makes a quick note and files that thought away for later. He glances at the clock and sees that their session is technically finished. Now that Dean is talking, Castiel feels incredibly torn, but he <em> has </em>to establish boundaries and he cannot appear too eager.</p><p>“Our time is up for today,” he says gently, pulling Dean from some sort of mental reverie. </p><p>“Yeah? That’s it? And I get to keep my yard time? My books?” Dean asks hopefully, and Castiel tries not to feel like an utter asshole.</p><p>“Yes,” he tells him. “Your participation was satisfactory. We’ll resume at the same time on Monday. We’ll be meeting twice weekly for as long as I deem necessary.”</p><p>Dean’s face falls. “<em>Twice? </em> That—I don’t know <em> that </em>much about Crowley,” he protests weakly. </p><p>“Well,” Castiel says with a shrug. “We’ll have to come up with something else to discuss then. When you run out of things to share.” </p><p>Visibly disconcerted, Dean stands and makes his way to the office door. He reaches for the handle and then seems to think better of it, turning around. “Don’t fuck with me,” he says, more resolve in his voice than his face. “If you—I won’t survive in here, if you turn me into a snitch. I’m already the whore, it’s bad enough for me, dude.” </p><p>Dean isn’t begging, but it’s a close thing, and Castiel truly feels for him. He understands the fear better than Dean thinks.</p><p>“I won’t,” he says solemnly, holding out a hand for Dean to shake. “I give you my word.”</p><p>Reluctantly, Dean shakes it and nods. “Whatever,” he says, as he slips out the door and is gone. </p><p>Retrieving his now-cold coffee from his desk, Castiel leaves his blinds drawn and goes to stand at the windows looking out over the rear of the prison. He waits patiently (enjoying the ocean in the meantime), and less than ten minutes later, he’s rewarded. On the other side of the glass, the guards call Dean’s inmate number as the exterior doors unlock and open. </p><p>When Dean steps out, his orange scrub top is back on, layered underneath a prison-issued hoodie. Dean flips the hood up before zipping it fully closed, stuffing his hands into the pockets and wandering immediately to the far end of the yard, by the fence. Castiel observes Dean just standing there, watching the water, for a very long time. </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Sharing doesn't come easily, a new arrival, Dean's a hero no matter what universe he's in...or is he? It's complicated. Never ever press the red button, and uniforms don't always indicate the good guys. </p><p>Who was waiting for Alastair to show up? lol. I feel like that was a given, he was there somewhere. :-P</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Suddenly, Tessa’s face appears in front of him, worried. “Dean, this isn’t like you,” she murmurs quietly before Dean feels the cold sting of a needle in his bicep and the whole world goes hazy and fades to black.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It used to be, he thinks.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you once again to @coinofstone for the editing assist!</p><p>This monster chapter really got away from me but I had shit I needed to get out before the POV switch back to Cas. Anyway, this chapter and the next have some darker content so please mind your triggers if you have them. If you do choose to read the warnings below, you WILL be spoiled in a big way. If you need *further* spoilers (about this chapter or future ones) than what is below, please hit me up on <a href="https://twitter.com/caslostwings">Twitter</a> or <a href="www.castielslostwings.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> and I would be *more* than happy to spoil anything that would make you more comfortable.</p><p>I'm aware that some people like to know the major angst/pain plot points before they read and I don't have any issue helping out w/that. I only ask that if you use Tumblr, don't send an anon ask because I won't spoil publicly and will have no way to reply to you directly. Same vein, if i *missed* something you think should be tagged, please let me know.</p><p>Chapter Warnings (THESE CONTAIN MAJOR SPOILERS):<br/>—&gt;Institutional abuse (Alastair beats and sexually assaults Dean on Crowley’s order). This is NOT graphic as Dean retreats into his head when it happens.<br/>—&gt;Dissociation: it becomes very clear that this is what Dean is doing to avoid experiencing and coping with this abuse. This is discussed during his sessions with Cas, as is the fact that what Dean is experiencing is definitely assault/rape, even if Dean is reluctant to define it that way.<br/>—&gt;Threatened (but not actual) gang rape/assault (first on another minor character, later towards Dean). It does not actually transpire.<br/>—&gt;Minor violence—Dean destroys some property because he wants to be thrown in AdSeg.<br/>—&gt;Tough emotions: Dean feels a lot of things strongly and has a hard time in this chapter. Anxiety, fear, hopelessness, but he also gets some of his fire back.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam shows up on Friday, and Dean doesn’t have the heart to refuse to see him. Their meeting is tense, Sam with the same questions he always has that Dean can’t answer, and losing patience with Dean’s obvious lies and deflection. Dean <em> wishes </em>his little brother would just get fed up and stop coming already. One he’s out of this place, he can always repair the damage he’s done to his and Sam’s relationship, when he can finally come clean.</p><p>Now, it’s just too much of a risk. <em> None </em>of this is worth it if Sammy doesn’t come out the other end unscathed.</p><p>By the time Sam leaves the drab visitation room, sighing and frustrated and not at all amused by Dean’s digs at his hippie hair, Dean’s just flat-out relieved to see him go. He knows their visit was noticed—some of Crowley’s goons had visits, too, probably drug drops—but that’s not overly concerning. Crowley only seems to care about Sam as much as he can use him to control Dean.</p><p>Sam doesn’t say whether or not he plans to come back this time, but Dean knows better than to hope he’ll just move on and live his freaking life. He <em> does </em>tell Dean that Bobby’s been checking in, helping him out here and there, but that he’s snagged a job as a barback and isn’t having any trouble making ends meet. Dean’s never been happier that Sam qualified for financial aid and housing assistance at his school—no fucking way he’d be in such a decent spot if he was still living with Dean when all this went down. Dean makes a mental note to call their uncle (not by blood) and thank him for doing what he can’t.</p><p>Dean tries to keep a low profile as the weekend drags on. His mood cycles obnoxiously, in a way he hasn’t experienced since before he was locked up and hasn’t missed <em> at all. </em> While he’s always been naturally skilled at repressing his emotions when he feels like it, prison has skyrocketed that ability to an extremely unhealthy level—for a normal person, that is. For a prisoner—for <em> Dean—</em>the ability to disappear into his head, to ignore his own depression and sadness, that’s the only damn thing keeping him <em> alive.  </em></p><p>That, and like he told Cas, the yard and the library. Those help, too.</p><p>He supposes “low-profile” is relative—if Crowley really wants to find him, he will. There’s nowhere to hide here, nowhere that’s private in any way that matters. On top of that, this is Alastair’s rotating weekend to work, so even the guards are against him. On second thought, maybe Dean doesn’t keep a low-profile so much as he goes about his very regular routine with his head down, hoping for the best.</p><p>He eats, he sleeps, he showers. He bends over obediently or opens his mouth without protest for anyone who shows up with one of those goddamn slips of fucking paper. He works out with Benny in the yard and watches the ocean. He checks On The Road out from the library after making the mistake of returning it for one entire day, immediately starting it over from the beginning.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck it, this shit is his now. </em>
</p><p>All the while, memories from the last several days plague his thoughts. This definitely hasn’t been his best week on record, and it’s all that goddamn head doctor’s fault. </p><p>Which <em> sucks, </em> because against his will and his better judgement—and the fact that the guy basically threatened him into <em> sharing—</em>Dean kind of likes him. He’s a dorky, nerdy little dude who (despite the muscles hidden underneath that nasty sweater) doesn’t seem like he belongs within fifty miles of a prison. Maybe it’s that—if Dean’s being honest—he’s attracted to <em> anything </em> that doesn’t seem like it belongs here. Or maybe he’s just an idiot who <em> wants </em> something that doesn’t belong here to be interested in <em> him</em>. </p><p>Cas is using him, though, that’s pretty damn obvious. When push came to shove, he wanted to hear about <em> Crowley, </em> not Dean at all. Considering the fact that <em> everyone </em> else he knows has been allowed to refuse their therapy visits, Dean should fucking know better. Cas—<em>Novak—</em>just pegged him (ha—he wishes) as an easy target, and fuck if he wasn’t right. All he had to do was wave Dean’s yard time in front of his face carrot-on-a-stick style and <em> bam, </em>Dean caved like the easy bitch he is. </p><p>Time passes in glimpses. Repetitive snippets of events that repeat and repeat, rarely changing even minutely between hours and days. Lying in his bunk and staring up at the drab grey ceiling, standing at the fence and looking out over the waves, lingering in the shower and trying to wash the sense of abject failure off of his person—Dean <em> can’t </em>stop thinking about it. He caved so damn easily.</p><p>The worst thing about it is that he <em> believes </em> Novak when he says he’s not out to screw Dean (over <em> or </em> literally), but only because he doubts the guy even sees him as a human or a person at all. Why <em> would </em> Novak care enough to dime him out or screw him over? Dean’s just a pawn, a means to an end. And <em> God, </em>that sucks, because Dean’s risking a lot just by talking to him at all.</p><p>He should’ve just let the dude take his privileges. Should have shut his fucking mouth the way he was told to do.</p><p>It’s early Sunday evening and Dean’s bench-pressing weights in the cage out in the exercise yard. Benny’s behind him somewhere, lifting handheld weights. Garth is the guard in the cage with them tonight, and if he weren’t so preoccupied hating himself, Dean would laugh. Garth would be dead in two seconds flat if anyone wanted to try something with the equipment in here—but for some reason, that doesn’t seem to faze the guy at all. </p><p>Maybe Garth thinks Dean or Benny would have his back or maybe he’s just that naive, Dean has no idea. Either way, Garth just stands leaning against the fence, thumbs in his pockets, calm as if he’s chilling at a bar and not monitoring a group of potentially dangerous criminals in lock-up. Garth’s perpetually upbeat attitude usually drives Dean crazy, but today it’s kind of nice to see his stupid smile. At least one guy in this place is exactly who he says he is.</p><p>At the weight he has loaded onto the bar, Dean can usually do twenty chest-press reps easy, but today he barely makes it past five. Visions of the bar falling from his hands and crushing his throat start swimming into his distracted daydreams about Cas and the week in general, and Dean finally gives up trying. With a sigh, he replaces it carefully on the hooks above his head, checking that it’s locked in place before sitting up. </p><p>With little motivation to do anything else, Dean props his foot on the bench and drops his forehead to his knee, breathing deeply. He listens to the waves crashing and thinks about what happened the night before his first session with Cas. About returning “home” to his cell ready to crash, and instead finding Crowley leaning smugly back in his chair, feet propped carelessly on Dean’s little desk. </p><p>“Fuck, what’d I do?” Dean groaned, shrugging off his hoodie and stepping forward to toss it onto the bed. Crowley just hummed, and when Dean turned back around, he realized why.</p><p>Alastair was there, must have followed him in. Standing in the doorway, the creepiest guard Dean’s imagination could ever conjure somehow managed to darken it despite his less-than-intimidating size. It’s not that he’s slight, but Dean’s got a couple of inches and a decent amount of muscle on the guy. And yet, a shiver went down his spine at the mere sight of him. At the glint in his eye, the slimy smile on his face, the way his filthy eyes stripped Dean bare, and not in the way he’s become used to.</p><p>No, Dean is pretty sure that if Alastair had his way, he’d peel Dean’s skin from his body inch by inch. Relishing, swallowing<em>, </em> probably fucking <em> treasuring </em>every scream.</p><p>He’s just that kind of guy. Makes the damn hair on Dean’s arms stand up. Neck, too.</p><p>Alastair is the damn <em> opposite </em> of Garth—evil in every way a man can be, Dean suspects. He <em> knows </em> the dirty guard had something to do with Crowley’s takeover and his take <em> down </em> of Lucifer, but the way Cas is pulling his strings, maybe it’s better he doesn’t know exactly what that was. He might just give it up on principle, might decide it’s <em> worth </em>it to be labeled a snitch and beat to hell by the other prisoners, to be free of Alastair.</p><p>Freedom wasn’t in the cards for Dean that night, though. </p><p>“It’s not so much what you <em> did, </em> Dean. You’ve been a good boy for me, mostly.” The back two legs of Dean’s chair creaked as Crowley shifted. He barely looked up, eyes focused on the fucking <em> orange </em> he was peeling into his lap, probably from H2’s snack basket, the bastard. Torturing a guy and forcing him into selling his ass is one thing. Messing with his <em> food</em>, though? That’s <em> low, </em>and it pissed Dean off. Maybe he would’ve even said something, if Alastair hadn’t picked that exact moment to crack his knuckles with the opposite hand.</p><p>Dean swallowed, doing his best to look unruffled and unbothered, probably failing miserably. He stretched and yawned, waving his hand in his visitors’ general direction. “‘Kay, well, whatever you <em> lovely </em>assholes want, would it be too much to ask you to get the hell on with it so I can go back to hating my life in peace?” </p><p>At that, Crowley <em> did </em>look up, one eyebrow raised. “Sorry, Dean,” he said, in a measured tone that let Dean know he’d definitely fucked up. His feet came off the desk, non-prison-issue dress shoes clicking ominously against the floor when he put them down. “Didn’t realize we were disturbing you.” </p><p>“Sorry,” Dean backtracked quickly, raising both hands in supplication. “Bad day.” </p><p>Crowley just hummed as he slung an arm over the back of the chair, crossing one leg over the other and looking up at Alastair with intention. “I will get on with it,” he said, tossing the entirety of the orange (fruit included) into Dean’s tiny trash can. <em> Fucker. </em>“But only because it’s close to lockdown, and I have stories to watch.” He cocked his head and Alastair advanced on Dean, grin widening.</p><p>“It’s come to my attention that you’ll be meeting with the new prison psychologist. While releasing you from this obligation would, in theory, be possible, it would require me to actually speak with that wet towel Naomi. Likely, give her something that she wants in return. As you may have guessed, that doesn’t interest me in the slightest.” Crowley paused for effect, Alastair nearly blocking Dean’s view of him for how close he’d gotten. </p><p>He smelled disgusting—like body odor and...something else Dean couldn’t identify, a bit like rotten eggs—which, what kind of life did this dude lead? Guy <em> just </em> started his shift, he couldn’t <em> shower </em>? Dean wrinkled his nose and tried not to gag from the proximity of the stink. Thankfully, he had some practice in that department.</p><p>“As an alternative,” Crowley continued, like he had all the time in the world, “Alastair is going to give you a little taste of what will happen to not only <em> you, </em>but sweet little Sammy if you decide to go rogue on me.” He leaned forward in his chair, bracing hands on his knees to stand. “Give him whatever he wants when he’s done,” Crowley finished, throwing Dean a wink before turning on his heel. “Enjoy.” </p><p>Dean was already back on the beach and listening to the waves crash in his mind before Alastair’s first punch ever landed, and he didn’t come back until the guy was long gone. In fact, when he <em> did </em>come to his senses, it was fully dark outside and Dean was lying on the floor next to his bed with his pants around his ankles. </p><p><em> Classy, </em> Dean thought, cringing at the drying stickiness between his thighs. As he pushed himself to his feet, he knew perfectly well that everything that transpired should serve as the warning it was meant to be. Instead, Dean found himself angry—furious, even. He’d <em> always </em> been loyal to Crowley—he never said a damn word, never <em> once </em> tried to weasel out of the contract he entered <em> willingly, </em> the one that guaranteed Sam stayed safe. And <em> this </em>was how he was repaid?</p><p>All the commissary money in the world, all the promises of eventual freedom and Sam getting to remain blissfully ignorant of the whole mess—suddenly, it felt a <em> lot </em> less tangible. Not less worth it, but less <em> real.  </em></p><p>Dean thinks about that now, with his head on his knee, the ocean in his ears, and the salty sea breeze whipping at his hair.</p><p>When did he stop <em> fighting? </em> At what moment did he decide to give in, to give up? This was never what he intended when he came here. The plan was <em> always </em>to find a way out, a way that would keep Sam safe but didn’t require Dean to be a prisoner in every sense of the word. </p><p>This whole thing—Crowley’s warning, Alastair’s assault—it only makes Dean feel incredibly determined to find a way <em> to </em> say something. It’s why he gave the doc what he did. At the end of the day, he wants nothing more than for Crowley to go down, even if it means he goes with him. There <em> has </em>to be a way—</p><p>Dean lifts his head, rests the point of his chin on his knee instead, and stares out over the water. It’s gray today, flecked with hundreds of little whitecaps whipped frothy by the wind. It seems like the more the fall drags on and winter settles in, that’s how it is here. Dean doesn’t hate it—the scenery is moody, melodramatic, and it fits his mood.</p><p>Licking his lips and tasting the salt on his skin, Dean thinks about Novak. Thinks about the icepack, about the gentle way the doc touched the side of his face with no goal, no intention other than to expose the problem and find a way to help. He thinks about the way the doc’s expression softened when Dean gave him what he wanted, about how he went out of his way to tell Dean that information on Crowley wouldn’t be enough to get him off the hook for their sessions.</p><p>Something in Dean’s chest <em> aches. </em> It’s so damn hard to hope. He’s got nothing left, no reason to do so, but <em> damn it, </em> he still <em> wants </em>to. </p><p>Sometimes he forgets, Dean does, that he’s human being. It’s so much easier to be a shell, to pretend that everything that made him a <em> person </em> was taken away the day he arrived at the Bay. That he made a choice to leave it all behind, outside the secured doors and the metal detectors. He thought it was enough, that he hasn’t <em> become </em> one of them—a person who hurts and tortures others for no reason other than he <em> can—</em>but it isn’t. Dean thought if he could sacrifice his body, if he could endure the shit that was heaped on him, that he could keep the rest locked away safe until it was time to <em> be </em>an actual person again. </p><p>He was wrong. The Bay—<em>Crowley—</em>it <em>takes. </em>It takes and it takes and it doesn’t matter how carefully you guard who you <em>were, </em>nothing is safe. Dean just wants himself back. He’s tired of glimpsing freedom from behind blurry windows and from in between chain-link, he’s <em>fucking tired. </em>He misses his brother and his car and his awesome memory foam mattress. He misses being able to go for a walk without glancing over his shoulder and the <em>feeling </em>of freedom. </p><p>And much as he might not like to admit it, much as the very thought of going up against Crowley in <em> any </em>way, shape, or form terrifies him beyond belief—Dean thinks Cas might be his only real shot at getting that shit back. And maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Cas is just another bureaucratic idiot, brass through and through and only out to screw Dean over.</p><p>But he didn’t. He <em> hasn’t</em>. Not yet, anyway. There’s no whisper down the lane in the shower block or in the caf that the prison slut is also a rat. There’s no Alastair in his doorway, nor any other sign that Crowley’s heard similar things from more above-board sources. Three days later and Dean’s <em> fairly </em> convinced that Cas kept his word and didn’t talk. Now, that doesn’t mean he won’t. Doesn’t mean Dean is ready to spill the rest of his damn guts, because maybe Cas is just softening him up to get the <em> real </em>goods before he does Dean dirty. </p><p>But—</p><p>But. <em> Maybe </em> it warrants a tiny, <em> miniscule </em>little sliver of hope.</p><p>At the very least, Dean can test the waters.</p><p>***</p><p>Dean does a <em> lot </em> of testing the waters over the next several weeks, and Cas passes every test and trap Dean throws at him. He mixes up the stuff he says, making sure to drop a few ultra-juicy tidbits here and there that are totally, <em> completely </em> false. The idea and the way Dean sees it, is that if Cas <em> is </em> playing him, he’s going to start to get comfortable. Start to think <em> Dean </em>is getting comfortable, maybe a little loose with his words and his info. </p><p>If Cas is playing him, he’ll dime him out on <em> something, </em> eventually. The desire to bust some drug exchange or catch some inmate red-handed breaking the rules is <em> gonna </em>win out. That’s what the brass do, it’s how they think, and if Cas is one of ‘em, he’ll show his true colors sooner rather than later.</p><p>Thing is, he doesn’t. There’s one time that Dean makes mention of a drug drop that he knows is going down (no specifics, just that it’s happening, but enough information that Cas <em> could </em> parse it out if he wanted to). Dean doesn’t usually skate this close to the edge with real info, but he has to know for sure. The bait takes, and this time, Cas practically <em> begs </em>Dean to let him intervene.</p><p>“I understand your reservations, Dean, but this is important,” he implores, stupid blue eyes wide. He pushes at the sleeves of his ugly-ass cardigan as he leans forward, legal pad set aside, arms turned upward and resting on his thighs. <em> Open body language. </em> Dean’s no dummy. “During my first week here, there was a bust that I suspected was ‘discovered’ intentionally as a red herring. That theory seemingly proved true when we had <em> three </em> overdoses the following week. Dean, this could help me. It could help <em> you</em>. I’ll ensure the information isn’t traced back.”</p><p>“I remember,” Dean replies noncommittally, stretching out languidly on the couch. He tucks his hands behind his head and crosses his legs at the ankle, uncaring about Cas’ cushions. “Not my problem, and also, how the fuck do you know Crowley didn’t make sure <em> I </em> knew about this drop just to see if it would get back to you? Don’t you get it, Cas?” Dean drags his eyes away from the ceiling to meet Castiel’s crazy-intense stare. “Nothing I know is safe. Nothing you <em> think </em>you know is safe.” Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Dude, if it was that easy, I would’ve worked my own way out of his hellhole by now.” </p><p>Tapping his pen against his lips, Castiel sits back and doesn’t argue.</p><p>The drop isn’t busted. </p><p>After that—just to check—sometimes Dean lets similar things slip to Cas, but mostly...they just talk. </p><p>“How do you deal with it?” Cas asks, one particularly bright afternoon. The winter sun is pulsing <em> directly </em>through the windows, preventing Dean from lying down and lounging like he usually does, which makes talking to Cas a lot less fun. </p><p>It’s freezing—twenty-nine degrees with an inch of stubborn, fluffy snow that’ll need to be swept off of the majority of the yard—and Dean’s mind is already focused on how he’s going to deal with the cold. Laps, maybe, if he isn’t stuck on broom-duty, even though running sucks and he’s already resenting it. Whatever it takes—outside is fucking outside.</p><p>“Huh?” </p><p>“The—the assault,” Castiel clarifies, looking a little surprised that he has to and yeah, that’s fair. Dean was pretty zoned out.</p><p>Still, it’s weird that he asked in the first place. Dean’s sessions with Cas are usually pretty, well, weak. They don’t tend to <em>go </em>here, prying into Dean’s <em>feelings </em>about stuff, though Dean supposes he should have expected it would only be a matter of time until Cas tried. There’s only so long he can wax poetic about cafeteria menus and yard routines and the way Crowley only showers with three different people standing guard (plus one outside his empty cell). At least, only so long before there’s just...not anything else to say.</p><p>Also, he’s not <em> thrilled </em> with Cas’ use of the word “assault.” It feels like a lie no matter how many times Cas insists he’s experiencing the “textbook definition” (of that <em> and </em> other words Dean resents—like <em> rape </em> and <em> coercion—</em>not helpful) daily. As far as Dean’s concerned, he signed up for this shit. At least on the outside, and yeah, “no” is a word he used a lot more often in those days, but whatever. Cas is—Cas is being <em> dramatic, </em> is what he’s doing. Probably thinks if he uses serious language then Dean will take <em> him </em>more seriously, or something. </p><p>So Dean just shrugs, tossing the stress ball he purloined from Cas’ desk hand to hand. Gives him something to do, gives him something to focus on besides Cas and those <em> eyes. </em> Twice a week alone in a room with a guy who not only looks good, smells good, brings him decent-tasting coffee and absolutely <em> refuses </em>to bend Dean over his desk and have at him is really starting to fuck with his mind. If he didn’t know better, he might think Cas is actually a decent fucking guy, and Dean—Dean can’t go there.</p><p>“It’s impossible to ignore, Dean, that <em> only </em>Crowley’s associates take advantage of you. The Warden has noticed, as have I. You aren’t out in the yard flirting and soliciting clients, you don’t tie your shirts up or wear your pants hanging half-off of your ass. Well, unless you’re trying to seduce me.” Castiel’s eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t look up from his notepad and Dean isn’t touching that comment with a ten-foot pole. He continues, “You aren’t trading sex for protection—the Warden has assured me that she’s seen you in a fight, and the results were tragic—for the other man—and your commissary account never seems to benefit from any individual “transactions.” </p><p>Right, so Cas has figured out the system Dean’s operating in, namely Crowley’s. Not like Dean has been trying to hide that part. Like, at all.</p><p>“You’re not doing this because you want to, that much is clear. Which makes it assault. You don’t want to discuss the how and why and that’s fine, but I am interested in the way it affects you—these things, they leave scars. How do you <em> cope?”  </em></p><p>What he <em> can </em> do is find a way to <em> use </em> this. To use <em> Cas, </em>his empathy, and his mission here at the Bay to first incapacitate Crowley and then score Dean a one-way ticket out of this place. </p><p>And in the name of that...yeah, alright, Dean can maybe talk about himself. A little.</p><p>“Got tons of scars, Cas. It’s not so different. This—it’s just a body,” he remarks, noting out of the corner of his eye the way Cas glances up, eyebrows raised. He’s clearly surprised that Dean’s entertaining his question, which Dean can work with. Give a little, buy some more time on revealing anything that matters. </p><p>“It’s—” He taps his temple with one finger. “All up here. They can throw me around and hit me, they can fuck me and shove things in my mouth, whatever. It’s all…” He trails off and works his jaw, shrugging again because how <em> do </em> you put this shit into words without sounding like some line from a chick-flick? “They can’t touch me. Not where it counts. What’s in my head, that’s mine, you know?” </p><p>Castiel nods slowly, putting down his pen and folding his hands together. “I’ve noticed that you retreat mentally as a defense mechanism. You’re very good at doing it on the spot.” </p><p>“Have to be.” </p><p>There’s a long pause where Dean hopes that he’s said enough while simultaneously knowing that he hasn’t. When Cas doesn’t speak, he reluctantly continues, still squeezing the ball. “I, uh, think about whatever. The beach, sometimes, ‘specially if it’s still fresh in my mind. Driving in my car. Setting off fireworks with my little brother. Just—really <em> good </em>memories.”</p><p>“Doesn’t that—aren’t you worried that the good memories will become tainted?”</p><p>Dean laughs reflexively, glancing up to see that Cas is dead serious and subsequently shaking his head. “Cas, man. You’re not hearing me.” He taps his temple again as he adjusts his position on the couch. “This is <em> mine. </em>They got no right to it, no way to taint it.” He flashes the Doc a bright smile, then lets it fade. “I’m not saying it doesn’t suck. These are—Cas, these are some of the shittiest days of my life, not gonna lie. But I’m not broken and ain’t no one gonna break me. They can’t get anywhere close enough to the real me to do that.” </p><p>“Alright,” Cas says slowly, thoughtfully. “But why put up with it at all? You’re not getting anything out of it. Why not just press the panic button when it’s happening? All the housing units have them. Even the shower block, the laundry.” </p><p>Dean’s not dumb enough to wander into <em> that </em>obvious trap, so he ignores what he knows Cas is really asking about and answers the easier question. “Dude,” he says incredulously. “You’ve been in this game for how long, and you don’t know the rules about the panic button? Buddy, nothing you say is gonna convince me that situation is different elsewhere.”</p><p>“Say I don’t,” Castiel prods. “Enlighten me.”</p><p>Dean blinks, his turn to be surprised. “Uh, sure. Um, the panic button is the ultimate snitch. You press it, whoever’s Top Dog is like, legally required to beat your ass bloody. That’s one of those things that never changes between regimes, either. You’re a prisoner? You never, <em> ever </em>press the red button. Trust me, Cas—that option? Wouldn’t help. Might delay the pain for a little while, but then when it comes, it’s guaranteed to be way worse. And hey, most of what I do ain’t all that painful. Not lookin’ to trade it for a bunch of perpetually broken ribs.” </p><p>“I see,” Castiel replies, his brow furrowed as he scribbles some notes on his pad. Dean just rolls his eyes and smiles to himself. How Cas never picked up on that particular prison dynamic is beyond him. <em> Dork. </em>In his chair, Cas cracks his neck and shakes out his shoulders a little, and Dean can’t help but wonder what that looks like without the ugly sweater obscuring the view.</p><p>Hey, a guy can dream.</p><p>“By the way,” Dean says casually. “That’s like, pretty common info. You can, you know. Share that with your supervisors or whatever. If you need to.” </p><p>Castiel’s head snaps up, but the smile he rewards Dean with is warm and approving. “Thank you, Dean,” is all he says, but Dean’s not an idiot, he can read between the lines. He feels as if he passed some sort of unspoken test himself.</p><p>“Sure,” he replies, his own smile fading as he swallows past the unbidden lump in his throat. “‘Course.” </p><p>***</p><p>Nearly a month into his sessions with Cas (and just as Dean is <em> kind </em> of settling into a routine with them, rare moments in his week that he can <em> maybe </em>even admit he looks forward to), something happens. A new prisoner arrives, assigned to the previously open cell in Crowley’s block, H1. On the same level and just down the hall from Dean’s H2, but separated by closable bars all the same.</p><p>False sense of security, really. Crowley doesn’t need freedom of movement or even direct access to make anyone’s life a living hell.</p><p>Despite that reality, Dean’s often wondered why <em>he </em>wasn’t housed in H1 (physical proximity alone dictates it’s only logical?) but that’s not a gift horse he cares to look in the mouth. Fuck, no. The more distance and bars he has between Crowley and his goons, the better, illusion or not. It’s bad enough that he’s got <em>Gordon </em>in his unit, after all. </p><p>Whatever.</p><p>The new arrival is a <em> kid. </em> By Dean’s estimation, he’s nineteen at most, but like most things in here Dean feels sure of, he’s swiftly proven wrong. <em> Alfie </em>shows up around dinnertime on a Thursday—a Cas day. They played cards during Dean’s session, and it put him in a particularly good mood. Unfortunately, leaving Cas' office and hearing the buzz around town about <em>Alfie, the</em> <em>new guy </em>circulating kills it almost immediately.</p><p>The kid comes shuffling through the cafeteria doors, red-faced and full of false-bravado that Dean is <em> sure </em>even he knows is fully transparent. Underneath their table in the corner of the room, Dean kicks Benny and Max’s shins, lifting his chin to direct their focus once he gets it. They all watch with interest as the caf goes silent, Alfie holding his head high as he grabs a tray and navigates his way through the serving line. </p><p>“Tell me he’s in 3 with you and was busy settling in when you came down,” Dean mutters, low enough that only Benny can hear.</p><p>“No, brother,” Benny replies, equally quiet. He pauses and then shakes his head. “H1. Saw Garth showing him around earlier.” </p><p>It’s not his problem. Dean shouldn’t care, shouldn’t get involved, shouldn’t give this kid <em> one </em>ounce of his energy or his attention. That’s not how prison works—it’s every man for himself in here, and Dean’s got enough fuckin’ issues he needs to sort out. </p><p>It’s just—<em>yikes. </em> This is a <em> kid, </em> Sammy’s age, maybe. Dean can’t help the way his brain automatically does the mental switch, and imagining Sam in orange sends ice coursing through his veins. If it <em> were </em>Sam, Dean would want someone to—to look out for him, keep him safe. </p><p>“Fuck,” Dean says under his breath, and Benny grunts his assent. It’s no secret that Crowley would be able to hand-pick whoever were to join him in his unit, and if his choice is <em> Alfie, </em> there’s a reason. From the looks of him, Dean’s pretty sure they can rule out “new bodyguard,” or even just a friend from the outside doing time. Nah, Alfie looks exactly the way Dean imagines he did back when Crowley first got his hands on him. No doubt the kid was an errand boy at some point. Only question is, did they graduate him <em> before </em>prison or is that something still to come?</p><p>Dean shakes his head vehemently, stabbing his plastic fork into some bland, soggy carrots without any intention of transporting them to his mouth. He watches with increasing suspicion and ire as Crowley beckons Alfie over to his table and pulls out a chair for him to sit. It’s like watching a pack of hyenas trying to fatten up a pig. Dean grits his teeth, painfully enough that he has to consciously unclench.</p><p>“Don’t even think about it Dean,” Benny warns. “He ain’t worth it.”</p><p>“I’m not think’ anything,” Dean lies, already having made the decision.</p><p>“Dude,” Max hisses, turning back from where he’s been draped over the back of his chair, watching. “Why? If they brought him to—you know.” He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “What’s the downside for you? Maybe it’ll get them off your back some.” Benny snorts and Max glares, jerking his head in Benny’s direction. “Not that this guy helps and you know how I feel about that, but in this case, he’s right.”</p><p>“See?” Benny replies mildly, shoveling the last of his vegetables in his face. “I’m right. Listen to your elders, cher. We’ve gone before you and paved the path of stupidity so you don’t hafta.” </p><p>“Appreciate the pep talk,” Dean mumbles without looking up. He pushes the last of his food around his plate, appetite having fled for the hills. “I’ll think about it. Promise.”</p><p>“Well,” Benny drawls. “You decide you do wanna go ahead and do something stupid, you know I’ll try and have your back. If I can.” </p><p>“I won’t,” Max pipes up helpfully. “Boys—have you seen me? Don’t think I don’t know I’m <em> damn </em> lucky this pretty ass ain’t been picked on yet. I thank my lucky stars every day for Dean and I’m not shy ‘bout admitting it. Dean, thank you and your <em> fine </em>ass for your service.” He picks up his fork and does a sloppy salute that sends half a carrot flying, prompting a sharp rebuke to follow from one of the guards. </p><p>The three of them collectively ignore her and Dean rolls his eyes, but he does huff a small laugh. Yeah, Max is joking, but he’s also dead fucking serious and they both know it. <em> No one </em>wants to be Dean. Not even Dean. </p><p>“Figure out how to make me a pie with those mixed fruit cups and a graham cracker crust and we’ll call it even,” Dean quips, still stabbing at his plate. He might not be looking directly, but his attention is still fully harnessed by Alfie, far too at ease next to Crowley for Dean’s liking. He’s going to be eaten alive before he even realizes what’s happening.</p><p>
  <em> Not on his watch.  </em>
</p><p>“Done,” Max announces as he stands and spins on his heel. “Me and Benny’ll experiment with recipes tonight after lockdown.” Dean just snorts as Benny gets up to follow after him, squeezing Dean’s shoulder. </p><p>“You be around later?” Dean asks, code for probing if Benny has managed to kiss the ring and score an approved roll in the sack. Hey, Benny’s way better than most of the other options on the table. Dean doesn’t even mind it, and he’s half-disappointed when his friend shakes his head ‘no’, not <em> just </em>because it increases the chances of someone else stopping by.</p><p>“Sorry, Cher,” Benny tells him. “Doin’ my best.” </p><p>“I know,” Dean replies, smiling weakly as he leaves. “Thanks.” After his friends are gone, Dean stays in his seat, eyeing Alfie out of the corner of his eye and pulverizing what’s left of his food into a nasty pulp. Eventually, the group leaves. Crowley’s at the head of the pack, arm slung around Alfie’s narrow shoulders. Dean waits a whole two minutes—until the guards are bitching at him to get a move on so the other wing can come eat—before he follows.</p><p>***</p><p>Crowley doesn’t waste any time living up to Dean’s very low expectations for him. As Dean rounds the shower block at the corner of H1, he can already hear Alfie protesting. His voice is loud enough that if he goes up another decibel, they’re all in trouble. Whatever guards Crowley paid off to be scarce aren’t going to be able to plausibly ignore outright screaming for long. If that happens, Alfie will pay the price later.</p><p>
  <em> Not on his watch, not on his watch, not on his watch. </em>
</p><p>“Shit,” Dean mutters, quickening his pace until he’s standing in front of the open iron gate to H2. He can see Crowley’s gang crammed into Alfie’s cell on the left side, three plus Alfie and two lingering at the door, keeping watch. They spot Dean immediately, which is probably good, because now he doesn’t have time to think or back out of what is definitely <em> the </em>worst idea he’s ever had.</p><p>And Dean’s the dude who <em> accidentally </em> ended up a hooker tied to the friggin’ <em> mob. </em> He’s had some doozies.</p><p>Charging like a bull towards a red flag into a <em> tiny </em>space filled with no escape and lots of people who have made zero bones about being fine with killing him dead—definitely rocketing to the top of the list, though. </p><p>But it’s one thing to let people fuck him up and fuck him over, to—as Cas says—make him a prisoner in his own head, if he wants any goddamn peace. It’s a <em> whole </em> other thing to stand by and watch it happen to someone else. Someone innocent. <em> Nobody </em> deserves this, and it’s pretty damn clear Alfie either <em> didn’t </em>sign on the dotted line, or he didn’t understand what he was signing up for.</p><p>Either way, Dean ain’t here for it.</p><p>Alfie’s lying on his cot, rocking a bloody nose. Dean realizes he’s arrived just in time—the kid’s down to his tighty whities and his scrub top, and the latter’s got a rip at the collar. He looks a horrifying mix of terrified and resigned and Dean—Dean <em> knows </em>that miserable feeling intimately. </p><p>Crowley’s goons actually let him barrel through, close enough to grab Alfie by the front of his shirt and tug him upright, probably more out of sheer shock than anything else. It’s not as if Dean’s ever been anything but accepting of his fate before—their one shared brain cell clearly needs a moment to process. </p><p>The man himself is leaning back against the window, watching Dean’s insane, doomed rescue attempt with one eyebrow cocked and an amused smile on his face. “Hello, Dean,” he says. “Can I help you with something? As you can see, my associates and I were just in the middle of—”</p><p>Dean doesn’t waste time, taking full advantage of Crowley’s lack of action by yanking Alfie with him out into the common living space. At least there’s room to throw a punch out here. Lacking explicit orders to the contrary, Dumb, Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest just stare at him wide-eyed as he goes, proving Dean’s theory about the singular brain cell. </p><p><em> Idiots, </em>but he’ll take that.</p><p>“<em>I’m </em>the guy you fuck with!” he yells. Dean’s furious now, riding the wave of adrenaline and anger as he shoves Alfie behind him with a protective arm. “That was the deal, wasn’t it, Crowley? Why the fuck would you need to involve him in this bullshit? He’s a goddamn kid!” </p><p>“I’m twenty-one,” Alfie whispers unhelpfully from behind him. Dean snaps a dismissive hand up before throwing him an, “<em>are you an idiot, too?” </em>sort of glare. “Sorry,” Alfie adds, completely sincere.</p><p>
  <em> Jesus, fuck.  </em>
</p><p>When Dean turns back, Crowley is sauntering out of the cell, face a lot less amused now. “I’m sorry,” he says icily, “Did I miss the part where you became Top Dog? Or surpassed me in rank in some other way? No, I didn’t think so. I don’t <em> answer </em>to you, Squirrel.” </p><p>Without fear, Crowley steps cleanly into Dean’s space, the inches Dean has on him not an intimidation factor in the least. Dean swallows heavily, refusing to blink or look away. He’s <em> never </em>challenged Crowley this way and he’s not dumb enough to think he’s getting out of here unscathed, but that doesn’t mean Crowley gets to see him scared.</p><p>“Take me instead,” he grits out, and just like that, Crowley’s amused expression returns.</p><p>“Dean, Dean,” he says with a sigh, reaching out to straighten Dean’s shirt, brushing some imaginary lint or dirt from the front. “First off, you and I don’t negotiate. You have no leverage and what I do with those in my employ is none of your business. Second, Alfie isn’t your replacement. He’s an addition. Understood?”</p><p>“No,” Dean persists, arm tightening where it holds Alfie firmly behind him. Kid steps across the line and Dean really won’t have anything to use. But the fact that he <em> doesn’t </em> bargain, doesn’t <em> ever </em> step out of line—that has to count for something, right? “I know what I signed up for, here. Whatever you wanna do to him, that’s my goddamn job. <em> That </em>was our deal.” </p><p>Crowley strokes his chin, looking thoughtful. He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the overhead PA system. “<em>The compound is now closed. All prisoners please return to assigned housing blocks and prepare for lockdown. Count will commence in ten minutes.”  </em></p><p>“Time doesn’t appear to be on your side tonight, Dean,” Crowley says, all sleaze and smug superiority. </p><p>Dean practically growls. “I’ll press the fucking panic button. I swear, Crowley. I’ll do it.” </p><p>“You won’t,” he replies curtly, then tips his head to peek around Dean’s shoulder. “Back in your cell until count,” he barks at Alfie. Alfie takes a second to glance up at Dean, which naturally, Crowley notices. “Wouldn’t make a habit of it. When the gate locks tonight, only one of us will be on this side. Dean might be throwing himself on the sword, but I’m the one holding it. <em> I </em> decide what happens to you, capiche?” </p><p>Alfie ducks his head and skitters like a mouse into his cell, door banging shut behind him while Crowley and his goons advance on Dean in a semi-circle.</p><p>“You’re going to regret this, Dean,” Crowley hisses. He’s calm as ever, but the undercurrent in his tone is <em> dangerous, </em> liquid evil, making every hair on Dean’s body stand on end. Staring down his boss <em> and </em> the four goons he just offered himself up to on a silver platter makes the whole thing seem a <em> lot </em> more real and a <em> lot </em> less smart. Suddenly, Dean’s fucking terrified, can’t imagine what the <em> fuck </em>he was thinking. </p><p>He turns on his heel and flees for his housing block, Crowley’s laughter following him all the way down the hall. “Be seeing you, Dean,” he calls out, and Dean hurries faster, like the bars he’s about to be stuck behind could ever protect him.</p><p>He hauls ass to his cell and vomits everything he managed to eat during dinner up in a burning-acid blast of fire in the back of his throat. Tears leak from his eyes, and Dean tells himself it’s from throwing up. Wiping his mouth with his hand, Dean flushes and drags himself to his sink, brushing his teeth with bleary, red eyes staring back at him in the frosted mirror. He spits, rinses, and then just stands there for several long moments until the PA system crackles to life again.</p><p>
  <em> “Inmates to assigned cell doorways for evening count.” </em>
</p><p>Dean stares at his reflection and struggles to even begin to list all the ways he’s fucked six ways from Sunday. </p><p>“What have you done?” he whispers.</p><p>***</p><p>The next day is Friday and Dean wakes with both a start and a creeping sense of dread. It seems odd that the sun is shining, feels like a day that should be casted over with clouds and rain. Hell, it might be Dean’s <em> last </em>day, for all he knows. The weather should match his mood. </p><p>He’s an idiot.</p><p>
  <em> What the fuck was he thinking? </em>
</p><p>Groaning, Dean rolls over on his shitty cot and buries his face in the gone-flat pillow. He punches the material up over his mouth and screams a muffled cry directly into it, surfacing hot and panting, the rough pillowcase having irritated his lips and cheek. The release doesn’t help.</p><p>Dean lies there listlessly, vaguely noting the sounds of his block-mates moving around as he comes to terms with the possibility that this <em> is </em>his last day. Half of him is surprised that Gordon didn’t come to shiv him in the middle of the night, but either Crowley wasn’t able to pass him a note or he’s planning something a lot more ominous. For whatever it’s worth, Dean’s money is solidly on the latter.</p><p>
  <em> What the actual fuck was he thinking?  </em>
</p><p>In saving Alfie—and <em> did </em> he really save him?—has Dean put his own life <em> and </em> Sam’s in jeopardy for nothing? After all this time and everything he’s endured, has it all been for nothing? At this point, Dean supposes the best he can hope for is that Crowley kills him quickly and then leaves Sam alone. It’s possible—after all, Sam doesn’t know <em> any </em>of the details, isn’t directly involved, won’t be of any use to Crowley after Dean’s gone and never will be. Dean clings to that hope, that even if he doesn’t survive the day, Sam might be free at the end of it. </p><p>It can only be a few minutes until the block’s doors open and the PA system summons the first round of inmates for breakfast. As soon as that happens, Dean’s ass is in danger. He won’t know when Crowley plans to enact his retribution, won’t know exactly what it’s going to be until he’s faced with it. He thinks briefly back on the prison legend about a dedicated group of Luciferites that rose up after their guy was ousted. Thinks about the bloody end of a pilfered broomstick that was supposedly found in the hallway outside H4 later that week. Thinks about the three dudes that went to the hospital when all was said and done and came back...not the same.</p><p>None of them were Crowley’s and no one ever tried that move again.</p><p>Not until Dean was stupid enough to open his big, fat mouth and play hero, like Alfie had shined a goddamn Bat Signal on the ceiling of H2.</p><p><em> Idiot, </em>he chastises himself for the hundredth time since waking.</p><p>The gate to H2 creaks open as the overhead PA system crackles to life. “<em>H1 and H2 may report for breakfast."  </em></p><p>Dean’s gotta play this smart. He only has one option here, one card left in his deck. It’s pretty simple, though. All he has to do is <em> not </em>be caught alone with Crowley’s gang. That means keeping at least one guard in sight at all times, by whatever means necessary. The brass might turn and look the other way, but Crowley isn’t dumb enough to start something until they do. If Dean can prevent that from happening…</p><p>So that’s it. Stay in crowded spaces, common areas, middle of the yard in plain sight of the admin windows and way too many guards to plausibly ignore. He remains in his cell until he hears the heavy footsteps of what has to be H1 clomping by in the hall. It’s a risk—they could jump him right now—but Dean thinks Crowley would want to draw the misery out. H1 and H2 have twenty minutes to eat and move on to the laundry, and Dean doubts that any of them are giving up morning coffee just to beat his ass.</p><p>Not like he’s going anywhere.</p><p>He skips breakfast, hustling to the shower block knowing it’ll be mostly dudes who tend to do the same, like Max. A quick nod at his friend in the mirror and Dean is in and out of the water in record time. Nothing happens, but he does get a few side-eyes from people that are firmly in Crowley’s camp. Not a great sign.</p><p>His plan works decently for the rest of the day. In the laundry, Dean strikes up a conversation with a female guard, Donna, who he’s <em> beyond </em>sure doesn’t have a corruptible bone in her body. It’s dry conversation that Dean barely pays attention too—busy watching his back and trying to get a read on Crowley—but it does the trick. Donna stays inside the work area for his entire shift, and Dean learns more than he ever wanted to know about the process of making a good donut.</p><p>Crowley acts <em> painfully </em> normal. He goes about his routine with the laundry press as if nothing is amiss, never glancing over at Dean even once. His cronies, on the other hand, give him away. They spend the work hours sniggering behind Dean’s back, “accidentally” bumping into his shoulder, and making comments to each other under their breath that Dean can’t <em> quite </em>hear. If they’re trying to freak him out, to intimidate him about what’s coming, it’s fucking working. </p><p>As soon as the compound is opened, Dean forgoes lunch and makes a beeline for the yard. He’s so nervous that he forgets his hoodie, spending the next few hours cursing himself out for the mistake. It’s full-on winter now, and despite the milder temperatures near the ocean and the long-sleeved tees the prison issues after the temperature drops to a certain degree, outside is no place to be without a jacket. </p><p>Thank fuck Benny comes to his rescue, showing up with Dean’s hoodie and a pitying look after Dean’s run as many laps as he can stand, lifted <em> all </em>the weights, and his limbs are still threatening to snap and fall off anyway from cold. </p><p>“Don’t,” Dean cuts him off, when Benny opens his mouth. “I know what you said, don’t need a recap.”</p><p>“Only said it ‘cause I knew your stupid ass was gonna do it.” </p><p>“Benny,” Dean complains, snatching the hoodie from his grasp and shrugging it on. He shivers in that way sudden warmth provokes, providing a reminder of how cold it actually is. Gratefully, he flips the hood up over his head and zips the front up tight. He shoves his hands into the pockets and heads off to walk the perimeter of the yard at a brisk pace—after all, part of his plan involves staying out here until dinner is nearly over before finally grabbing some food. Gotta stay warm to do that.</p><p>“This your plan? Avoiding them? You gonna do this every day for the rest of your life, or what?”</p><p>Dean shrugs, focusing on the sound of the waves to his right and the slap of his soles on the concrete. “I’ll figure out something better.” That’s a lie, he’s got nothing. As it is, he’s already considering faking sick to get sent to the infirmary after dinner, and that’s a trick that only works so many times.</p><p>Benny sighs, deep and put-upon, but he shoves his hands into his own pockets and falls into step beside Dean. “A’ight,” he says. “Just so long as you know that this is stupid and they’re gonna catch up to you eventually.”</p><p>Dean doesn’t reply.</p><p>“Kay. Well, then I’ll try and be there when they do.”</p><p>Dean stops walking abruptly and turns to face Benny, eyes scanning his face for any sign of humor but finding none. “Can’t ask you to do that,” he says carefully, wanting more than anything to admit how fucking terrified he is and how <em> disgustingly </em>relieved he’d be to have someone—anyone—on his damn side. </p><p>“Good thing I didn’t ask you to,” Benny shoots back, and now his eyes are sparkling. “Can’t promise you great odds, but ain’t two better than one, cher?” </p><p>“God, yes,” Dean breathes. Without thinking too hard about it, he flings his arms around Benny’s shoulders and squeezes. Surprised, Benny huffs as Dean’s weight pushes the air from his lungs, but then he laughs and returns the hug, clapping Dean on the back.</p><p>“Alright,” he says. “S’gonna be alright.” </p><p>“Dunno about that,” Dean says, gruffly swiping at his eyes as he pulls away. The wind whips cruelly at his cheeks and Dean turns away from it to the fence, grabbing on and looking out over the water like he so often does. “More likely, I drag you in and get you killed along with me.”</p><p>“Ain’t gonna happen, cher. I know what I’m doing. I can hold my own just fine.” </p><p>Exhausted, Dean doesn’t have the heart to argue so he just nods. They stand there in silence, enjoying the view for a few minutes until the cold gets the best of them, and then they walk. They walk until dinner is called and then keep going, intent on staying out of Crowley’s sight until the last possible second. Just as they’re about to head in—because <em> fuck </em>if Dean can catch a goddamn break—Garth emerges from the access doors and yells Benny’s name.</p><p>“Pick up the pace, Lafitte. Your lawyer’s here to see you,” Garth calls, voice echoing across the yard. </p><p>“My—what? I ain’t seen that dude in months. Why the hell would he be here now, past business hours on a Friday?” Benny’s eyes go a little unfocused, something unfamiliar clouding them over. “Time was, they <em> were </em>talkin’ ‘bout an appeal, but…” He trails off and shakes his head, squeezing Dean’s shoulder reassuringly, the way he does. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell Garth it’s not a good time. He can always come back or I can give ‘em a call on Monday.” </p><p>“No,” Dean replies, shaking his head and removing Benny’s hand. “Dude, go. This is your life. I can handle my own shit. If you don’t make it back before dinner ends, I’ll head over to the infirmary.”</p><p>Benny’s quiet for a minute but then he nods, still completely skeptical. “If you’re sure.”</p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>“Alright, brother. I’ll catch you in a bit. Don’t go gettin’ yourself offed while I’m gone.”</p><p>“Do my best.” </p><p>The yard is empty when Benny leaves it, save for Dean. The weather puts most of the inmates off of spending too long out here these days, which is just as well. Even the guard assigned to watch the area is standing in the alcove, monitoring Dean from where there’s heat. Sometimes Dean thinks these assholes have gotten <em> too </em> complacent with how well-behaved <em> most </em>of the inmates here are. If it weren’t for Crowley and Sam, he’d make a break for it just on principle.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Dean casts a longing glance out over the waves and the mostly-set sun. Nose and ears feeling like they may no longer exist on his face, he turns away and heads inside.</p><p>***</p><p>Dinner is fine. Crowley’s gang has already come and gone by the time Dean arrives at the caf. Once he’s finished and the guards are prepping for the other wing to head inside and eat, Dean reluctantly busses his tray and heads out into the corridor. Out of the corner of his eye, he clocks one of Crowley’s guys hanging out partway down the hall. There’s a closeable gate there, just beyond the caf, that marks the entrance to the housing blocks. The dude may look casual, but Dean isn’t fooled. </p><p>He’s waiting, watching.</p><p>Swiftly, Dean turns right around and speed-walks determinedly in the opposite direction, towards the admin area that houses the infirmary and Cas’ office. His heart is in his throat and blood is roaring in his ears as he rounds the corner. When he’s twenty steps from the infirmary, down at the other end of the hall, two of Crowley’s idiots appear. They both have menacing smiles on their faces, and there’s no ambiguity about what they want. </p><p>Dean chooses to narrow his focus, closing the distance between him and the door that much more quickly. He reaches for the handle and turns—</p><p><em> Locked. </em>A quick glance through the window shows the lights are on but no one’s inside.</p><p>“Fuck,” Dean curses, looking up just in time to see <em> Cas </em> round the goddamn corner of the hall. If this were <em> any </em> other time in <em> any </em> other situation, Dean would have a whole other set of issues, because the guy looks fucking <em> hot. </em> Kind of loose-limbed and relaxed in a way Dean’s never seen him before, sweaterless and with the sleeves of his sexy white button-down rolled up to his elbows. His hair is extra tousled today, and he <em> smiles </em>like Dean is the freaking sun when he catches sight of him.</p><p>“Fuck,” Dean repeats, running a hand through his hair. He tosses a glance over his shoulder to the end of the hallway he came from, unsurprised to see Gordon and two more faceless goons loitering there, waiting. Gordon looks <em> hungry</em>.</p><p>
  <em> What the fuck comes next?  </em>
</p><p>By the time he’s turned back, Cas is almost at his side, pleased expression melting away when he takes in Dean’s (apparently visibly distraught) state. “Dean, what’s wrong?” Cas reaches out and touches Dean’s arm, casual, <em> friendly, </em>and Dean—Dean doesn’t have the fucking bandwith for this right now.</p><p>“You gotta get out of here, Cas,” he hisses. “You’re gonna—you’re gonna get hurt. I just need to...I need a plan.” Dean glances around wildly as the cronies at either end of the hall start closing in. Dean doubts that any of them even know who Cas is, but it’s not like they’ll fuck him up <em> here. </em> They’ll just drag him away and he’ll have to either tell Cas that everything is <em> fine </em> as he’s walked to his death or be labeled a fucking <em> snitch </em>and then—</p><p>Just when everything seems hopeless, another inmate comes out of the door that leads to the library halfway down the hall, and a lightbulb pops on in Dean’s head. The library is open tonight—he was going to get a new book, back when that was the most exciting thing he had to look forward to this week. A pretty desperate idea surfaces, and Dean drags his hand over his face, feeling hot and unbalanced. It’s not the best plan he’s ever had, and it might result in losing library privileges forever, but he’s out of options. </p><p>“Dean?” Cas is saying, still trying to get his attention. “Dean—” </p><p>Shaking him off, Dean beelines for the library, trusting that Cas cares about him (or at the very least, his own job) enough to follow. He bursts inside, heavy door slamming hard against the wall. It makes the librarian flinch and causes everyone else to turn and investigate what the commotion is. </p><p><em> The ain’t seen nothin’ yet, </em>Dean thinks.</p><p>He storms across the room, past several study tables that he’s used a few times to try and bone up on law shit, grabbing one of the plastic chairs and hurling it as hard as he can across the room. He’s careful not to aim in anyone’s direction or hit any of the bookcases. </p><p>There’s an immediate ruckus as the librarian and the prisoners react, scattering and hustling themselves out the singular exit, the way Dean entered. No guards are present, but when Dean turns around he finds Cas fighting his way past fleeing people to get in. It’s a relief, but Dean can’t show it. He steels himself and gets to work.</p><p>“Dean!” Cas calls out, face scrunching up in confusion, one hand out in a pacifying gesture as Dean flings another chair. “Dean, calm down.”</p><p>Through the window in one of the library’s double doors, Dean can see Gordon arrive just outside the room, looking pissed. </p><p>“Not feeling very calm right now,” Dean replies, upending a table and sending a stack of books tumbling to the ground along with it. He picks up a random stack of paper and flings it, sheets fluttering to the ground in a sad mimicry of snowflakes. Cas steps closer and Dean puts both hands in the air. “Feelin’ pretty fuckin’ angry, Cas. So what are you gonna do about it?” </p><p>“Alright, let’s talk,” Cas says, and now <em> he’s </em> got both hands in the air, <em> open body language</em>, and <em> good, </em>Dean must really look like he’s gone off the deep end. </p><p>“Don’t feel like talking,” Dean replies, sweeping a hand down an entire table and sending everything on it flying. He punctuates the move by upending the table right after.</p><p>“Dean, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to call for an officer and slot you. Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?” </p><p>Mustering up everything he’s got, Dean <em> prays </em> as hard as he ever has that Cas <em> gets </em> it, that he <em> sees </em> him. He bangs his hand on one of the remaining tables before turning to stare Cas down head-on. Pleading with his eyes, Dean screams angrily at the top of his lungs, “Then do it, <em> do it! </em>What the fuck are you waiting for?”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Gordon throw up his hands and turn. <em> He </em>gets it. </p><p>“DO IT!” he screams at Cas, their eyes remaining locked. For a long moment, Dean thinks Cas is going to fuck this up, but Cas’ eyes search his face and Dean thinks he can <em> see </em>the moment when it clicks. He reaches for the radio on his belt and calls for back-up. </p><p>Triumphant, Dean whirls around and goes back to wrecking stuff, careful not to do any permanent damage or actually destroy any books or education material. He flips chairs and the remaining tables for a few more minutes until a parade of guards rush in and tackle him to the ground.</p><p>The PA system crackles to life, announcing a compound lockdown and a “Code Black” in the library. Dean grimaces smugly from where his cheek is being ground into the carpet, a knee in his back and an elbow in his ear. He thinks he feels blood tricking from his nose, but he could care less. </p><p>From where he’s lying, he can still see the bottom of Cas’ pants and his shoes—he stayed, he’s <em> right there</em>. Dean doesn’t know whether he’s glad about that or worried. Doesn’t know whether he wants Cas to come see him in AdSeg and listen to him finally spill his guts or if that will make everything a hundred times worse. Dean <em> doesn’t fucking know, </em>he’s out of ideas.</p><p>But he’s gonna live through the night now, thanks to Cas, and that’s what matters. Bought himself another goddamn day to figure it out.</p><p>Suddenly, Tessa’s face appears in front of him, worried. “Dean, this isn’t like you,” she murmurs quietly before Dean feels the cold sting of a needle in his bicep and the whole world goes hazy and fades to black.</p><p><em> It used to be, </em>he thinks. </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Cas staying late at work for drinks gets him into more trouble than he bargained for, Dean and Cas get to know AdSeg (and each other) more intimately, Cas checks out the beach and Cain has ideas.</p><p>Hang in there--one more really low chapter for Dean and then things are going to start to look up. But that doesn't mean the ride is over, it just changes shape. ;) My friend @lizerd70 made a fantastic comment on the last chapter about this whole story being an exploration of how everything is shades of gray, hopefully that's really starting to shine through. Please don't bail, it won't be this tough forever lol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“DO IT!” Dean screams.</p><p>Castiel does.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to @coinofstone and @blucifer for the editing assist and checking for plotholes, this story is crazy complicated!</p><p>This chapter now contains art of Cas on the beach by the talented and generous <a href="https://reaperlove77.tumblr.com/post/643908084485455872/inspired-by-break-on-through-by-the-wonderful">reaperlove77</a>!! Go leave them some love &lt;3</p><p>The warnings for this week are pretty extra, I don't think this chapter is super upsetting but just in case:</p><p>Chapter Warnings (CONTAINS SPOILERS):<br/>—&gt;minor alcohol use/minor discussion of drug use<br/>—&gt;Cas has thoughts about his feelings for Dean that are inappropriate for their relationship (he knows they are and struggles with it). There is some indication that Cas might have been tipsy enough to act on said feelings if things in the hall had gone differently.<br/>—&gt;Minor violence—the library scene from Cas’ POV<br/>—&gt;Minor discussion of blood/injuries and brief use of restraints for a medical/safety reason<br/>—&gt;references to threats/blackmail/manipulation<br/>—&gt; discussion of Dean’s past/being drawn into the mob/prostitution</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Drinks with Naomi have become somewhat of a weekly event, and Castiel doesn’t hate it nearly as much as he thought he would. Naomi is—well, many people would be tempted to label her a “bitch,” but that’s only because she’s a woman. Had she been assigned male at birth, she’d be hailed as a bold, fearless leader, an obvious example for any officer to aspire and any Warden to look up to. On the other hand, Castiel suspects having to work twice as hard to be seen as half as good may be the very thing that’s made Naomi as tough and competent as she is. </p><p>Either way, she’s certainly earned her position, and while Castiel personally may not see eye to eye with her on everything that goes on at the Bay, Naomi has earned Castiel’s cautious respect as well. </p><p>Trust, on the other hand, is a far different matter, and he’s reserving his judgment in that department for now.</p><p>But sharing drinks does not require trust.</p><p>Each Friday since the first time Naomi suggested it, Castiel’s arrived at her office just as soon as he finishes the group therapy session he holds weekly for struggling and recovering addicts. The fact that participation in group therapy is a <em> well-</em>known way to bolster a parole application helps keep his numbers high enough to justify the continued meetings, but it’s not an overly productive sort of session. Mostly, Castiel talks and offers tips while the various attendees stare with glazed eyes up at the ceiling or fall asleep in their seats. </p><p>No one’s ever suggested that this job is good for the ego. </p><p>Privately, Castiel suspects that most of the addiction group participants actually <em> come </em>to the meetings high or looking to score, but it is what it is. This is prison and no one’s tried to shank him in a toilet-hooch-induced hallucinatory rage yet, so he figures—untempered drug trade aside—things are going fairly well. </p><p>This afternoon offers a particularly boring meeting—even from his perspective—and Castiel finds his own eyelids growing heavy as he listens to people talk. A man from H3 takes nearly half an hour recounting how his addiction drove his wife into the arms of another man and him off the edge of the proverbial cliff. His prison sentence was a result of stalking them both, a deluded venture that escalated to harassment and threats. The inmate—his name slips Castiel’s mind, but it’s on his sign-in sheet somewhere—gets so upset that he winds up walking out early. Usually, Castiel would chase after, but the man’s energy suggests he needs some time alone. </p><p>Around five, Castiel calls it for the day. He and the other inmates clean-up the classroom, stacking their circle of chairs in piles around the perimeter and moving tables back into place. Once done, Castiel bids them all goodnight and locks up the room. Across the way, the prison librarian is just getting in, opening the library up for recreational access tonight. </p><p><em> Charlie, </em> Castiel thinks her name is, though they haven’t officially met. A quiet, petite redhead that—if his memory serves—was brought on by Naomi specifically due to her tech-savvy background. She teaches a course at the Bay once per week in addition to offering one-on-one education during nights the library is open. Must be a cash thing, because Charlie <em> always </em> looks terrified just to <em> be </em>inside the building, and yet week after week, she keeps on showing up. </p><p>As Castiel turns towards his office, she catches his eye and smiles brightly, waving with the kind of infectious energy and enthusiasm you don’t see much of in prison. Unwittingly, Castiel finds himself smiling and waving back, and he gives into the mood, letting it buoy him happily into the rest of the evening. </p><p>Dropping his jacket and tie onto the chair in his office, Castiel yawns and stretches. He closes his laptop and stuffs everything he’ll need to catch up on documentation over the weekend into his bag. It’s warmer inside the prison than usual—probably nice for the inmates (who are well-used to the opposite), but Castiel’s overheated. <em> Especially </em>if he’s going to now have a drink. He preemptively rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and unbuttons the very top of his shirt before heading out and over to Naomi’s office. </p><p>Even though he’s technically off-duty, Castiel keeps his radio clipped to his belt while moving about the prison. That’s something he learned the importance of the hard way back when he was a brand-new therapist, and he’s never forgotten. Bottom line: having a charged radio on your person can be the difference between life and death in lockup. Yours, someone else’s, doesn’t matter—you treat your radio like it’s precious, because it is. </p><p>Castiel has a wireless earbud to go with the radio somewhere, but a quick patdown of his pockets and a peek inside his desk drawer doesn’t turn up any trace of the thing. <em> Dammit, </em> he thinks. <em> That’s the third one this month. </em>If his door wasn’t perpetually locked, he’d think someone was stealing them. </p><p>He shrugs it off and heads out, making his way through the stream of inmates heading to dinner, badging out of the secured areas and into the main administrative hallway. He waves to Garth at Reception and whistles a little as he heads for the suite Naomi’s office is in. </p><p>Her secretary, Becky, is packing up for the evening when Castiel arrives. With a smile, she waves him right through, calling out hopes that he’ll have a nice weekend as he goes. Castiel returns the platitude, and by the time he’s closing Naomi’s door behind him, he’s in a <em> very </em>pleasant mood indeed.</p><p>His boss is on a phone call when Castiel enters and she rolls her eyes, stage-whispering, “Board,” with the most exasperated tone a whisper could possibly carry. Castiel chuckles, unenvious of what Naomi deals with on a daily basis. Having to balance the needs of the prison (and prisoners) while answering to a demanding Board of Directors who only care about numbers and figures sounds like a perpetual nightmare.</p><p>After all, it’s no secret that the Bay exists and runs mainly due to “anonymous” high-rolling donors, and Crowley’s recent <em> imports </em>have been atrocious to that bottom line.</p><p>People like Dean, like every single <em> thug </em> Crowley has taking up a cell in H1—they don’t <em> do </em> “courtesy donations,” anonymous or otherwise. From what Castiel hears, Crowley’s doing his part, but it’s not nearly enough to cover the increased expenses. This is a good thing, as far as both Castiel and Naomi are concerned, because once they <em> do </em>find a reason and a way to sever that assbutt’s power, no one on the Board is going to take Crowley’s side. Should be entirely the opposite, in fact.</p><p>If only they could <em> find </em>a damn reason, they’d be in great shape. </p><p>Shaking his head, Castiel beelines for the classy wooden sideboard Naomi has set up between her two large windows, both of them looking out over the lackluster parking lot. He inverts two of the four clean glass tumblers that are sitting on top and selects the cut-crystal decanter half-full of whiskey. Squinting one eye, he pours a generous three fingers into each. There’s an ice bucket on the side of the table, and Castiel selects a couple of cubes for each glass, plopping them in with the tongs hanging readily on the handle. </p><p>
  <em> This is not the worst job ever.  </em>
</p><p>Turning around with a glass in each hand, Castiel moves to set a drink in front of Naomi before settling down himself. He relaxes into one of the two comfortable-but-practical curved-back chairs she has facing her desk and takes a sip, glancing around. Castiel’s been here many times, of course, but he’s not yet been able to completely adjust to the opulence, unusual in a prison as it is. </p><p>Naomi’s office is <em> nice</em>. The kind of nice that wouldn’t be out of place in many hotels or on the C-suite level of a giant corporation’s office-building-slash-skyscraper headquarters. Expensive dark wood accents, rich, burgundy curtains and matching rugs decorate the windows and floor, and fancy framed art adorns the walls. A couch and chair setup that makes Castiel’s look spartan takes up the majority of the middle space, and there’s even a gas-insert fireplace on the far wall. It’s burning right now, nestled in between two full bookcases that each run nearly floor-to-ceiling. </p><p>Across from him, Naomi hangs up the phone with a frustrated grunt, rubbing at both of her temples with two fingers as soon as her hands are free. She sighs and slumps back in her chair, taking what Castiel can only describe as a<em> gulp </em>from the glass he put in front of her. He’s come to look forward to these “meetings,” appreciative of the way Naomi seems to have accepted him as a friend and not just a subordinate or colleague. She’s always far more relaxed during these private moments, and their conversation rarely lingers on work. </p><p>Today, though, she’s clearly got a lot still on her mind.</p><p>“That was Zachariah,” Naomi says with a grimace, indicating the very thought of Board President Zachariah Adler tastes worse in her mouth than the whiskey. Castiel bites back a smile at the thought. “Complaining about our new arrival. Another of Roman’s requests, <em> surely </em>arranged by Crowley, not that I can prove it. I had him held at County while on remand, but Roman expedited his trial and he’s already been sentenced. There’s nothing I can do, not that Zach wants to hear it.” She shrugs. “Everything is money to him, as you know.” </p><p>Castiel raises his eyebrows and takes another sip of his drink. “Something else I know,” he offers, “is Alfie, our new arrival. Some<em>one,</em>” he corrects, after a moment. The whiskey is going to his head quickly tonight. </p><p>“Oh? Do you happen to know where he extracted <em> ‘Alfie’ </em>from that alphabet soup legal first name of his?”</p><p>“Doesn’t that question answer itself?” Castiel chuckles and turns the glass in his hand. “I am guessing you didn’t have a chance to review his record yet.” Naomi shakes her head no, expression intrigued. Castiel nods. “He did a short stint in Pontiac—maybe three years ago? Almost four? He was <em> barely </em> eighteen and it was a short sentence. Accessory to a B&amp;E, if my memory serves. He did six months and was released on probation for good behavior. I saw him on intake per policy and never again, but I remember him because he was uncharacteristically <em>good. </em> I’m sure you know what I mean.”</p><p>Naomi hums and nods slowly, swallowing what might be half of the whiskey she has left. “Memorable for the right reasons,” she says, by way of agreement.</p><p>“Precisely. Has me kicking myself somewhat.” </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Castiel shrugs. “I thought—he was young, he was a model prisoner. I assumed that he was learning his lesson, that his incarceration would be a one-time thing. Now? I wonder if I should have paid more attention. My caseload was high, at PCC. Much more intense than it is here, but I—that is my <em> job. </em> There is no excuse for allowing someone to fall through the cracks.”</p><p>Naomi waves a dismissive hand and drains her cup, standing and moving to refill it on perfectly-balanced high-heeled feet. Her alcohol tolerance puts Castiel’s to shame, and his isn’t anything to scoff at. As she pours, she says, “If Alphabet Soup fell in with the wrong crowd during his original stint in lockup or after, that is strictly on him, Castiel. You take things far too personally.”</p><p>Eyes on the melting ice cube swimming in his diluted liquor, Castiel doesn’t reply. Here is where he and Naomi differ on approach and will likely never agree. She barely sees the inmates she’s responsible for as humans, Castiel looks for the humanity first. With her position and authority, her outlook is more or less understandable—or at least, Castiel <em> can </em>understand it—but it’s not something he wants to emulate or empathize with. </p><p>When he looks up, Naomi’s sitting back down, rolling her eyes and smiling. “What was it your former supervisor told me when I called for a reference?” </p><p>“Hester? ‘Too much heart’, I imagine,” Castiel answers softly. </p><p>To his surprise, Naomi’s smile widens. “Listen, Castiel,” she says. “I’m only going to say this once, and if you tell anyone I’ll deny it, but that was the moment I decided to hire you.” </p><p>Castiel perks up. “Really?” he asks, doubtful.</p><p>Naomi lifts her shoulders and drops them carelessly, amber liquid sloshing in her glass. “I’m the heartless one,” she says airily. “And I already have one of me. Anyway, let’s talk about something else. What news do you have for me on Crowley and company?” </p><p>Feeling warm once again, Castiel catches her up on his most recent thoughts and theories, careful to tread lightly where they overlap with things Dean has shared during his therapy sessions. He hasn’t broken Dean’s confidence yet and he doesn’t intend to, not without explicit and enthusiastic (written) consent, and <em> yes, </em>Castiel does see the irony in choosing that particular euphemism. </p><p>It doesn’t take long to fill Naomi in on what he knows, as it hasn’t changed much from the prior week. In return, Naomi confirms that Crowley is <em> still </em> refusing to work with her for the good of the prison or anyone (including himself), and then they’re off of work and onto more interesting subjects. The woman Naomi has been seeing recently, the fact that Castiel <em> isn’t </em> seeing anyone at all. What feels like a full half-hour of Castiel dodging her attempts to set him up with some cousin of hers named Inias that a tipsy Naomi is just <em> positive </em>he will “adore.” </p><p>By the time he’s stumbling out of her office, Castiel’s well beyond tipsy himself, ruffled and overheated. He unbuttons a second fastening near his collar, striding down the hall feeling particularly satisfied and content. It would appear (against his active attempts to the contrary since he’s arrived in town) that he’s actually managed to make a friend. </p><p>Of course, along with the slight intoxication comes a rush of <em> other </em> less “friendly” desires that Castiel’s become <em> much </em> better at suppressing, at least while sober. All the talk of dating has Dean floating across his mind, causing him to both curse himself <em> and </em> smile stupidly as he makes his way down the hall. While the problematic dreams he had early on have gone by the wayside since he’s gotten to <em> know </em>Dean, unfortunately for Castiel, his affection for the man has only grown.</p><p>Dean is such an incredible human being. He’s smart and he’s kind, he’s brave and he’s chivalrous. He’s the most selfless person Castiel thinks he’s ever encountered, always putting others ahead of him, even in small ways. For someone who should be fully beaten down and broken by the things he’s experienced, Dean’s traumatized and yet remarkably resilient. Castiel knows that his thoughts and feelings are beyond inappropriate, but he can’t deny that he’s a little bit in love with him.</p><p>Of course, nothing can or will ever come of it, except that Castiel will go to the ends of the earth to help the man get free. Of this prison and any other that tries to cage him.</p><p>Castiel’s whiskey-soaked brain reminds him of all of this in swift succession before replaying their card game earlier, just to add a mocking cherry on top of his musings. It’s a good memory. Dean had been so unusually <em> happy, </em> laughing and temporarily carefree while he beat Castiel at hand after hand. They barely touched on anything important talk-wise, but Castiel thinks it may have been one of their most successful sessions yet. Dean <em> needs </em>an escape other than into his own head, needs to relearn happiness without dissociation. Perhaps sprinkling more days like today into their meetings will help him remember that it’s possible.</p><p>As he rounds the corner of the secured section of the prison that contains his office, Castiel gets an unexpected but entirely welcome surprise. Because he’s half-drunk, his sense of propriety and the careful way he maintains distance (emotional and otherwise) between himself and Dean goes <em> straight </em>out the window when he sees the man standing in the middle of the hall. </p><p>Later, Castiel will blame the whiskey in his veins for slowing everything down—his common sense, but also his <em> instincts.  </em></p><p>Which is how he ends up with his hand on Dean’s arm, smiling up at him like a <em> dope </em>for several long seconds before he even registers that something is very, very wrong. </p><p>“Dean?” </p><p>Dean tells him something but Castiel doesn’t quite register it, still trying to figure out why Dean’s pretty face looks so completely <em> distraught. </em>He follows Dean’s gaze as it moves, noting on delay that several inmates (easily recognizable as Crowley’s men) are lurking at either end of the hall. Before Castiel can quite get his wits together and vocalize more than Dean’s name, Dean’s taking off at a dead run, bursting through the doors of the library like a bat out of hell. </p><p>Suddenly, Castiel’s feeling ice-cold and a <em> lot </em>more sober. Dean’s going to end up in solitary if he keeps this up.</p><p>As Castiel approaches, everyone in the library comes piling out. Arms are flailing, voices are yelling and carrying on, and Castiel has to fight his way through the throng. By the time he’s inside the double doors, Dean is across the room and flinging chairs. It’s so unlike anything he’s seen from the man so far (in person or via observation), that Castiel <em> knows </em>something must be terribly wrong. </p><p>“Dean!” Castiel calls out, still trying to gather his wits. “Dean, calm down.”</p><p>“Not feeling very calm right now,” Dean replies. As Castiel watches helplessly, he upends a table and sends a stack of books tumbling to the ground before picking up a random stack of paper and flinging it. Following his own instincts, Castiel steps closer, arms up and out, doing his best to appear non-threatening, to remind Dean that he’s the good guy, a <em> friend, </em>that he can help.</p><p>In response, Dean puts both hands in the air, mirroring him. “Feelin’ pretty fuckin’ angry, Cas,” he says, and his eyes are dark, intense and furious. “So what are you gonna do about it?” </p><p>“Alright, let’s talk,” Castiel offers, stalling for time as he searches Dean’s face, trying his best to remember if Dean mentioned anything earlier, if he <em> missed </em> something. <em> He must have. What the hell is this about? </em></p><p>“Don’t feel like talking,” Dean replies, sweeping a hand down an entire table and sending everything on it plunging to the floor before tipping the table over, too.</p><p>Much as he cares about Dean and wants to de-escalate, Castiel’s starting to worry that it won’t be possible, and he does have a job to do. The library has cleared out, but if Dean decides to take his tantrum elsewhere, Castiel might not be able to stop him. He doesn’t believe Dean would intentionally hurt anyone, but prior to this moment, he also wouldn’t have thought he’d do <em> this. </em></p><p>Eyes pleading, Castiel tries one last time. “Dean, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to call for an officer and slot you. Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?” </p><p>In front of him, Dean’s demeanor changes. It’s nothing dramatic, and if Castiel hadn’t essentially been immersed in the study of <em> Dean Winchester, 101 </em> for the last month and change, he might have missed it. But he’s <em> learned </em> Dean, likes to think he’s starting to know him, beyond the facade and the careful front he puts up to fool the rest of the world. That’s desperation on his face, that’s <em> hope </em>in his eyes, and why—</p><p>Dean bangs his fist on one of the remaining tables and then glares Castiel down head-on, eyes wide. “Then do it, <em> do it! </em>What the fuck are you waiting for?” His eyes dart to the library doors and Castiel glances over, registering the cluster of Crowley’s idiots hanging just outside.</p><p>The gears turn in Castiel’s head, everything falling into place at once. </p><p>Dean <em> wants </em> him to call for help, wants to be thrown into solitary. Something is going on—he must be at risk and this is the only way he knows to ask for help without breaking the “no snitch” code. <em> Fuck, </em> Castiel chastises himself, even as he’s reaching for the radio still clipped to his belt. He should’ve figured that one out a <em> lot </em>faster.</p><p>“DO IT!” Dean screams.</p><p>Castiel does.</p><p>***</p><p>By the time the tranquilizers wear off and Dean starts to rouse, it’s nearly two hours after all the commotion occurred in the library. </p><p>After a frantic call for assistance over the radio, Castiel watched helplessly as a hoard of officers stormed the room and took Dean down. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, instead watching and then walking with Dean as he was injected with benzos and carted off on a gurney to medical AdSeg. Once there, he was secured in five-point restraints and left to sleep off the good drugs, hopefully to wake in a better mood.</p><p>Tessa, kind as she is, made sure to have the on-call doctor order an X-Ray of Dean’s face. Likely prudent, since his nose was smashed hard into the library’s carpet, gushing blood all over and leaving a puddle behind. Results: no break, and besides a pretty nasty rug burn on the side of his face, Dean seemed to have escaped relatively unscathed. </p><p>Tessa also gave Castiel an estimation on how long the sedatives would last as she cleaned the blood from Dean’s face—a subtle hint that he should use that time wisely. After a visual check for himself to make sure (Dean was, in fact, still breathing), Castiel took her suggestion to heart and went to clean up. In the privacy of the officers’ break room, he downed two mugs of black coffee, washed his face, and brushed his teeth with the hygiene supplies he always kept on-hand for exactly this sort of event. </p><p>Well, actually, Castiel imagined <em> freak snowstorm </em> or <em> power outage </em> or similar when he was making those preparations. He didn’t predict himself being half-drunk and with a patient in crisis, but To-may-to, To-mah-to. Once decidedly sober and slightly more presentable, Castiel immediately returned to Dean’s room. He’s been holding vigil at his bedside ever since.</p><p>Which means that when Dean’s eyes flutter open and he groans, wincing in pain and tugging at his restraints in frustration, Castiel is right there to help. “Relax,” he murmurs, one hand resting warmly on Dean’s bicep. “You’re alright. We’ll get the restraints off once you’re fully awake and ready to explain what that little display was all about, though I believe I have a guess.”  </p><p>It takes another few moments of wet blinking and eyes darting around the room before Dean’s forest-green irises, dark with distress, finally clear and focus on Castiel. “Hey, Cas,” he croaks, flashing him a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach those same eyes. He holds Castiel’s gaze though, mouth opening and closing a few times before he apparently decides that he’s not sure what to say and shrugs instead. “Thanks?” </p><p>Castiel sighs and rolls his eyes, removing his hand so that he can walk over to the exterior door. Medical AdSeg is nothing special—a bed fit with removable restraints in an otherwise empty, cinderblock room, a privacy curtain, and a large observation window fit into the wall that stretches along the hallway. There are two such bays, side by side with the main infirmary sitting just across the way. Convenient for when Castiel leans his head into the hall and calls to where Tessa is sitting just inside the infirmary’s open door, charting.</p><p>“He’s awake.” </p><p>“Be right there,” she says absently, stabbing violently at the keyboard a few final times before grabbing her stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff and heading over. She looks haggard. Her hair is spilling out of her ponytail holder more than usual, and there are dark circles under both of her eyes. She smells less than fresh as she passes Castiel by, and he wrinkles his nose without meaning to.</p><p>“Sorry,” she apologizes, though her tone is unembarrassed. “Meg called out sick, I’m working a double. Pray it’s quiet so that I can sleep ‘cause I’m all you got tomorrow, too.”</p><p>“Is that...legal?” </p><p>“If I sleep it is,” she replies cheerfully, pressing the stethoscope to Dean’s chest and listening. Castiel decides not to press that one, but he does intend to bring it up to Naomi.</p><p>“Hello to you, too,” Dean says gruffly, and Tessa glares. He shrinks visibly under the weight of her disapproval, which is surprising, because Dean.</p><p>“You’re the entire reason I’m still awake right now buster,” Tessa says pointedly. “Do you know how much paperwork an incident like that is? Now, are you going to be more trouble or did you get it all out of your system? Doc said it’s my call when and if the restraints come off, and Dean, if you make me look like an asshole, I will make <em> sure </em>you don’t get out of them for the next week. That means Meg and I take turns holding your dick while you pee and wiping your ass. That something you want to experience?” </p><p>“Uh, no ma’am,” Dean replies quickly, face and neck flushing red. His gaze darts briefly to Castiel’s face and then away, which Castiel finds particularly interesting. Dean hasn’t attempted to seduce him again since their first meeting, and his flirting has mellowed into something that does feel a lot more genuine, though Castiel has assumed it’s simply how Dean is with everyone. Or at least, people he wants something from. </p><p>Now, though, he wonders. Or, he would, if there weren’t far more pressing issues at hand.</p><p>“Atta boy,” Tessa encourages, patting Dean on the shoulder. “That’s what we like to hear.” She undoes each of his wrist restraints and the one around his abdomen before lifting the head of the bed and offering up a cup of water that’s sitting on a rounded metal tray next to the bed. Dean will be lucky if she lets him keep it. He’s lucky <em> now, </em>considering. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what all that was about,” Tessa continues, her tone indicating she doesn’t remotely expect him to.</p><p>Once again, Dean’s eyes flicker to Castiel’s face as he shrugs uncertainly. “Was just feeling a little stir-crazy. You know how I get when I can’t go outside.” </p><p>Tessa pauses in her undoing of his ankle restraints to squint in confusion. “You were outside this afternoon. For a <em> really </em>long time and without a coat. One of the guards radioed up to ask if they should bring you in since it was so cold.” </p><p>“I had a coat.” Dean snorts, blatantly evading the question. “For...some of the time, anyway. Whatever!”</p><p>“Your excuse is bullshit,” Tessa presses, so Castiel steps forward, touching her elbow gently. </p><p>“I’m willing to co-sign a vaguely documented mental health concern, Tessa. I’ll take responsibility for Dean from here—Naomi’s orders. If the physician or anyone else has an issue with your assessment, they can speak to one of us.”</p><p>“Good enough for me,” Tessa agrees, flashing Castiel a bright smile. “Yell if you need chemical sedatives, I got another night-night syringe ready to go if he gets frisky.”</p><p>“You wish,” Dean calls after her, pouting as she lifts a hand above her head to wave but doesn’t turn back around.</p><p>Castiel closes the door behind her. “You owe me,” he starts, taking a seat in the chair next to Dean’s bed once again, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms across his chest. He looks at Dean pointedly. “You ruined my evening. Now, spill. From the top.” </p><p>Dean stares back at him challengingly. “Tell me what you know,” he counters.</p><p>Narrowing his eyes, Castiel considers the proposal, ultimately opting to decline. “No,” he says. “Tell <em> me </em>why you wanted to be thrown in AdSeg badly enough to destroy prison property or I’ll get Tessa back in here with some terrible medical punishment.” It’s a completely empty threat and Dean knows it, but he pretends to act affronted anyway.</p><p>“Cas, you should know by now, blackmailing me ain’t the way to get what you want. Plenty of <em> other </em>ways, but you got all those pesky ethics you like to worry about.” Dean’s teasing now, but his smirk doesn’t reach his eyes, the lines around them pained and his expression stiff, even when he winks. </p><p>“Dean.” </p><p>Dean looks down at his lap, fidgeting with his fingernails and sniffing. He lifts one shoulder and drops it again without looking up. </p><p>Castiel changes tack. “Why didn’t you just press the panic button?”</p><p>Dean sighs. “Cas, we talked about this.” Remaining silent, Castiel waits until Dean finally glances up, presumably registering his arched eyebrow. “Oh,” he says.</p><p>“Oh, indeed.” </p><p>“You’re asking because you know, but you want to hear it from me.”</p><p>“He can be taught.”</p><p>Working his jaw, Dean stares Castiel down for a long moment before his face crumples and tears spill over, tracking wetly and silently down his cheeks. The rugburn on the right side of his face looks much more pronounced as the skin around it reddens with Dean’s internal struggle to fight to suppress his emotions.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says softly. “Please, let me help you.” </p><p>Dean swallows hard and for a minute, Castiel thinks he’s going to refuse, the way he always does. But then—like some kind of miracle—he sucks in a deep, haggard breath, and he talks. </p><p>He talks more candidly than Castiel has ever seen him do before, and Castiel recognizes that Dean must feel like he’s up against an immovable wall to be spilling his guts the way that he does. The various possibilities of why that could be each send a chill down Castiel’s spine. One thing is certain—Dean is in trouble of the very worst kind, and he views Castiel as his last chance, his only way out. </p><p>That’s a lot of weight on Castiel’s shoulders, but it’s an unexplainable relief, too. Dean <em> trusts </em>him.</p><p>The first thing Dean tells him about is Alfie. About the new inmate’s arrival and the ensuing situation where Crowley was attempting to turn him into a second Dean, as it were. Perhaps it should, but none of what Dean discloses about this necessarily <em> surprises </em>Castiel, although it disgusts and angers him plenty. Enough that he struggles to maintain his cool while listening to Dean relay the entirety of his last twenty-four hours. From the previous night’s encounter in H1, all the way up to seeing Castiel in the hallway and sensing an opportunity. </p><p>The <em> most </em> surprising thing about all of it is how <em> angry </em> it makes Dean. Not about what’s happening to <em> him </em>(well, somewhat), but on Alfie’s behalf. </p><p>“Guarantee they tricked him, Cas,” Dean fumes, cheeks red and fists clenched into the fabric of the thin blanket draped across his lap. “Just like they tricked me. Oh, be an errand boy, Alfie. You’ll gain the boss’ trust, Alfie. You’ll move up quick, Alfie. Just do what they say and before you know it, you’ll be rolling in money and power, Alfie. We’ve all done it, Alfie, you won’t work the streets forever, Alfie. And then—and then before he fucking knows it, he’s in <em> here </em> being passed around like a—a <em> sex toy</em>.” Dean spits the last words like he can’t stand to have them in his mouth, unable to meet Castiel’s eyes any longer. </p><p>From where he’s sitting stock still in his chair, Castiel is mindful of keeping his expression carefully blank, to appear unchanged and unbothered by Dean’s words. No pity, no big emotional displays—he’s learned very quickly that nothing shuts Dean up faster than pointing out when he’s being vulnerable or suggesting that he’s deserving of empathy. </p><p>“Is that what happened to you?” he asks, voice even.</p><p>Dean nods curtly. “Yeah,” he says, licking his lips and wincing. Risking a closer look, Castiel can see where the right side of his upper lip has a small split. He wants to ask if Dean’s in pain, if he can ask Tessa for something to ease the burden, but Castiel knows better. He keeps his mouth shut. </p><p>Dean takes a deep breath, and Castiel’s stoicism pays off.</p><p>“My dad died when I was eighteen. Lucky he held on that long, but at least he did one decent thing for us. You know my birthday? January twenty-fourth?”</p><p>“It’s coming up,” Castiel says, noncommittally. </p><p>“He kicked it on the twenty-sixth. I, uh, spent the night with some hottie and it turned into a weekend.” Dean looks miserable, like this is one of his worst memories, which really, that’s saying something. Somehow, Castiel gets the sense that it’s not his father’s death he’s upset over. “I never did that kind of stuff. I had this job at my uncle’s garage, dropped out of school at sixteen to help support Dad and Sammy. You know, ‘cause he drank all our damn money away. Anyway, I was gonna be a firefighter, mechanic on the side, had my GED and everything. Things weren’t bad. I just—I was <em> eighteen, </em>Cas. Felt like i was invincible and I wanted to blow off some steam.</p><p>“Anyway, Sam was a self-sufficient kid and Dad rarely left the couch, ‘cept to piss and hit the fridge. Plenty of nights I took fire calls and left them alone, shouldn’t have been a big deal.” Dean pauses and swallows and Castiel realizes he hasn’t looked him in the eye since they started talking about Alfie. </p><p>“Came home from partying all weekend with this chick and found my baby brother sitting in the back of a cop car outside of our building. An ambulance with the doors wide open was sitting in front of him. Sam was—the way the cop car was parked, he was staring into the back of the truck, <em> watching. </em> Dad—he suffocated on his own vomit, Cas. He—” Dean breaks off, choked up and miserable. He takes another slow, rough breath and shakes it off, dragging the back of his arm across his eyes.</p><p>“You know, I don’t blame myself for Dad, not much anyway. He’d been a lost cause for years. If it hadn’t happened that night, would’ve happened another. But Sammy—he shouldn’t have had to see that shit. It was <em> my </em> job to take care of him, to protect him, to shield him from Dad’s bullshit. Instead, I’m out drinking and fucking and he’s <em> twelve </em>years old calling 911 and trying to do CPR and telling the paramedics that he did his best, that our building didn’t have an accessible AED.” </p><p>“That’s...impressive, for his age.” </p><p>Dean huffs a laugh. “That’s Sam. That’s why he’s got scholarships and financial aid and whatever else his school gave him to trick Sam into choosing them, ‘stead of one of the <em> five </em>fucking Ivys he got into. And thank fuck they did, with me landing my dumb ass in here.” </p><p>Castiel senses he’s about to lose Dean into a pit of melancholy sadness inside his own head, so he cautiously attempts to steer the conversation. “So you took custody of Sam, I presume, and money became tight.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says ruefully, latching on to Castiel’s offering like it’s a floating piece of wood in a raging, stormy ocean. “I mean, we had Bobby. He wasn’t really an uncle but we always called him that, and he loved us. He was already stretching funds by giving me the gig at his shop, though. Anyway, this guy, real slick dude, used to bring his car into the garage where I was training. Nothing official, but some of the mechanics were teaching me basic stuff. Wasn’t bad at it, either, but anyway. This guy, he, uh, brought his car in a few times when nothing was wrong with it. Lookin’ back, I can see he was just trying to find an excuse to talk to me, to get me alone.”</p><p>“Crowley?” Castiel guesses, not really a guess at all.</p><p>Dean makes a face. “Yeah. He’d catch me outside on break, offering me smokes, talking about himself. Painted this whole damn picture, how his ‘company,’ could help me out.” Dean uses actual air quotes, and any other time, Castiel would mock him. Only because Dean positively relishes making fun of him when he does the same. Clearly, this is not the time, but Dean catches his eye all the same and smiles—just a flicker, there and gone—and Castiel warms. </p><p>“Go on.” </p><p>“Right, so, you know, obviously I knew it wasn’t on the up and up. I was young and dumb but even I thought it was pretty obvious his ‘company’ was some kind of organized crime situation. But Cas, when I say we needed the money, I’m not fuckin’ joking. This wasn’t like, ‘choose between heat or water this month’ broke, this was like, ‘haven’t eaten in three days, stealing scraps to feed Sam from the communal garage fridge’ broke, you know?” Castiel nods solemnly, pleased that Dean’s becoming more animated, that he’s making eye contact again. </p><p>“It was a low point for me, buddy. Maybe I never bought the line that I could <em> be </em> Crowley, but he gave me money upfront. Paid our rent for the whole month, took me grocery shopping. I would have done <em> anything, </em> Cas, <em> anything </em> to thank him. And all he wanted was some errands. Drop a box here, run a letter there, follow some dude around and look intimidating, <em> easy </em>shit. So easy I ended up dropping the garage like a hot potato, ‘cause I made pennies there in comparison.”</p><p>“And once you were on the hook, he upped the ante.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Dean agrees, bobbing his head. “I got comfortable, he got my full attention and all my focus, and by the time I realized what the fuck I’d done, I’d already burned all my legitimate bridges. Straight and narrow didn’t feel like a thing I could even <em> get </em>back on if I wanted to. I was a kid.” His voices softens on the last word, and Castiel can’t help it—he reaches out and takes Dean’s hand. It trembles slightly, and he wraps both of his firmly around Dean’s shaky, damp palm.</p><p>“Don’t be scared,” Castiel says, hoping the full weight of what he’s trying to convey comes through. He watches as Dean fights to gather himself before continuing.</p><p>“It started with twenty-four seven errand stuff,” Dean says. “Crowley knew I wanted to be home for Sammy at night. He was still really young. Old enough to stay by himself for short periods of time, but I was only nineteen at that point and we already had CPS breathing down our necks. It’s so freaking obvious what that douchebag did to me now, I could wring his neck. Giving me all-night assignments and then putting my feet to the fire when I couldn’t or wouldn’t complete them.”</p><p>Dean looks furious.</p><p>“He—he tricked me, got me to rack up all this debt from his ‘generosity’ that I could <em> never </em> repay and I kept <em> letting </em>him bail me out. Rent, food, what other choice did I have? Anyway, by the time he suggested I start hooking to make it up to him, it was almost a relief. I could make my own hours, Crowley had regular clients he’d send my way or send me to visit…” Dean shrugs and scratches his chin.</p><p>“Wasn’t bad, actually. Seriously,” he adds, likely noting the difficult-to-hide skepticism Castiel knows is showing on his face. “Most of Crowley’s associates on the outside were rich, lot of ‘em were hot, they tipped well, and most importantly, I <em> could </em> say no. Out there, he never gave me a problem if I turned a client down.” Dean goes back to picking at the blanket in his lap. “It’s weird,” he says, almost conversationally. “I’m <em> doing </em>the same stuff in here, but I don’t—I don’t look at what I did out there and what I have to do in here as the same thing at all.” </p><p>“That’s because it’s not,” Castiel chimes in, brow furrowing. “You think it is?”</p><p>Dean pulls a face and tips his head to the side. “I think...that most people would definitely think it’s the same, yeah.” </p><p>“It’s not,” Castiel repeats, and it seems to be the right thing to say because Dean relaxes, settling back into the elevated head of his bed, just a little. </p><p>“Well, whatever. The long story short is that after Crowley got locked up, an undercover badge found me. Thing is, Cas, I didn’t stand on a fucking street corner with my shirt tied up or however you described it. I <em> never </em> did that. Not in here and definitely not out there. I wore t-shirts and jeans, had this dive bar I used to hang out at. If I was open for business, I’d sit on a particular stool at the bar and drink this weird beer, El Sol. People found <em> me.</em>” </p><p>Castiel knows that his mouth falls open. He had a solid inkling that Crowley arranged to have Dean picked up, but this goes beyond the pale. The man didn’t even care that Dean would certainly know it was him, perhaps even <em> wanted </em>him to figure it out, to feel powerless. The realization makes Castiel furious. </p><p>“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he says, knowing that the sentiment is weak but meaning it wholeheartedly all the same.</p><p>Dean just shakes it off. “Yeah, well, it is what it is. So, the rest is probably obvious to you. I do what Crowley says or he goes after Sam. I don’t even <em> know </em> exactly what he means by that, whether he’d hurt him or kill him or try and recruit him. I was too dumb when I signed on the dotted line to ask or make him clarify. Upside is, Sammy is <em> damn </em> smart. I’d love to think he’d never fall for Crowley’s games, but the guy has allies everywhere and he’s <em> slick. </em> You know, by the time I’d been hooking for a year or so, he already had three brand-new errand boys all lined up to take my place. Fodder for the canons, so to speak. None of ‘em were like me, broke and desperate, either. One of ‘em was recruited from a rival crime family, even. Royalty turned lackey. I’m telling you, he’s <em> good. </em>”</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “I hate to ask—but how do you know that Crowley won’t go after Sam anyway? You said—”</p><p>“No,” Dean replies, more confident than Castiel expected. “Nah, he won’t. Crowley’s a lot of nasty things, but he doesn’t do shit without a contract. He tracks <em> everything, </em> Cas. Dude, if I could get my hands on <em> my </em> contract, <em> that </em> would be real leverage. But, you know, that stuff is about as accessible as if it was locked up in a crater on the moon. Point is, me and Crowley have a deal, and Crowley honors his deals. I uphold my end, he upholds his. <em> Looks </em>simple, is actually dangerously deceptive.”</p><p>“So it would seem,” Castiel says solemnly. “Alright, just—let me think for a moment.” Little does Dean know, Castiel is thinking about a lot more than what to do next—this would be the moment in their relationship that he’s long been dreading. He has little choice but to let Dean in on, well, the fact that he already knows a <em> lot </em> of what he just shared. He <em> could </em> probably get away with lying, now that Dean has offered the information himself, but Castiel’s <em> only </em>move, his best plan to protect Dean, is impossible to explain and sell without first coming clean.</p><p>Plus, with the way Crowley manipulated Dean, Castiel doesn’t think he could ever feel right about doing anything even incrementally close to the same. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and it’s never been clearer that Dean’s hell stems from feeling like he’s been made a puppet, like someone else is pulling his strings. Time to cut the ones he’s holding.</p><p>“I may know someone who can help,” Castiel begins, looking up somewhat guiltily from where he’s been glaring at one of the scuffed linoleum tiles on the floor. He clears his throat. “I may have done some...<em> research </em> on your past, when I first arrived here at the Bay.” </p><p>Dean’s eyebrows go up. “Come again?” </p><p>Castiel wets his lips. “I have a—a contact. A friend, really. A former patient whose welfare I became quite invested in while we were working together. We have kept in contact since his release.” </p><p>Suddenly, Dean grins, tipping his chin up knowingly. “So you <em> do </em> bang your patients. They just have to be <em> not </em>your patients anymore.” </p><p>“No, I—” Castiel cuts himself off and narrows his eyes, quirking his head to the side as he regards Dean. “What? No. It’s not like that.” </p><p>“If you say so, sunshine.” </p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says, exasperated. “Please.” Dean suppresses his smile and raises his hands, placating. “As I was saying. He’s not just any patient. He’s one of the <em> very </em> few people I’ve known to fully disentangle himself from organized crime and live to tell about it, and he has many, many connections. I thought—Please don’t be angry with me. You were so closed off. I only did it to understand you better, to help you.” </p><p>To Castiel’s shock, Dean just shrugs, not appearing even remotely perturbed. “Doesn’t seem like you’ve told anybody whatever it is you found out, so. I mean, Cas? You put Sammy at risk in all of this, brass or not, I’m gonna kick your ass. But in case you haven’t noticed—” Dean spreads his arms and gestures around him. “I’m kind of out of ideas here. I’m a dead man walking. You got some kind of nuclear option, I’m the last guy to be poking holes in the lifeboat, no matter how sketchy it might look.” He makes a face at his own mixed metaphor. “Or whatever. So? What’d this guy dig up?” </p><p>“Mostly, my contact told me about your father and Sam, that your brother was the probable leverage Crowley was holding over you. The most important piece of information he gave me had nothing to do with you or your family at all, though. It might make more sense when you hear his name.”</p><p>Castiel hesitates, no longer entirely sure whose confidence he’s betraying here, what the right path forward <em> is, </em>or even what his endgame in unraveling this whole mess might entail. Only one way to find out. </p><p>Dean stares at him expectantly. </p><p>“Cain,” Castiel says. “His name is Cain.”</p><p>Across from him, Dean’s face goes fastidiously blank. Castiel waits, counting on the belief that Dean is <em> smarter </em>than he lets on, that he’s found out as much as he possibly could about the organization he’s tied up in, even if he was in too deep for what he discovered to matter very much once he did. </p><p>“Cain,” Dean echoes slowly, deliberately. “The fucking <em> founder </em>of the Knights is your...your prison pen pal?”</p><p>Castiel frowns. “He was released from prison. So you know who he is?”</p><p>Dean barks a laugh, clearly in disbelief. “Yeah, Cas, I know who the fuck <em> Cain </em> is. The more important question—the <em> only </em> question—is why the fuck would he want to help <em> me?”  </em></p><p>“Many reasons. I know how it sounds, Dean, but Cain has changed. He’s out of the life.”</p><p>Dean laughs again. “Yeah, and I can’t imagine he’s hopping back in it to save some idiot lackey who was too dumb to recognize he was being <em> pimped.</em>” </p><p>“In truth, I think his concerns lie much more with what Crowley has done with this...chapter...of the Knights in his absence and without his leadership. I need to call him,” Castiel says, standing up and releasing Dean’s hand. “I’m not making any promises, but the one thing I am sure of is that Cain was less than pleased about how Crowley has been exercising his power. I don’t actually know that there <em> is </em>anything he can or will do about it, but it’s time we find out.” </p><p>Shaking his head, Dean wordlessly lifts his hands, blinking up at Castiel like everything he’s just learned hasn’t quite settled yet. Castiel thinks that’s more likely than not the case, and perhaps it’s best if he gives Dean some time and space to decide whether he resents him or not.</p><p>“You’ll remain in protection until I give the word, so don’t worry about Crowley for now. I’m going to call Cain and then go and get some sleep. It’s almost midnight. You should, too.” He starts for the door and then pauses, turning around to meet Dean’s worried eyes once again. “You’re not alone in this, Dean.” </p><p>Dean scoffs, slipping back into his performing persona seamlessly. “So, what—I'm Thelma and you're Louise, and we're just gonna hold hands and sail off this cliff together? It won’t work.”</p><p>“Do you <em> want </em>it to work?” </p><p>“Of course I want it to—what the fuck is that supposed to mean? I just—”</p><p>Castiel steps forward again, back to the side of Dean’s bed. He hovers patiently while Dean stares up at him, eyes watering, lost. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”</p><p>Dean swallows, but doesn’t deny it. Instead he asks, “Why’d you do it?”</p><p>This, at least, is simple, whether Dean is asking why Castiel looked into his past or why he’s trying to help now. Castiel tells him plainly, “Because I know better. Dean, you’re the most selfless man I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. I thought so before but after tonight, I’m sure. You deserve so much better than the hand you’ve been dealt. Good things do happen.”</p><p>Looking away, Dean shakes his head, one single tear spilling over and moving silently down his cheek. “Not in my experience.”</p><p>Castiel takes his hand once more, squeezing in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “I know that I don’t have the right. I know that we don’t know each other <em> terribly </em> well, but I am trying to help and I <em> am </em> your friend. All I’m asking is for you to <em> just </em>have a little faith.” </p><p>Dean snorts and is silent, staring determinedly at the wall instead of at Castiel, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. After a long moment, he lifts his gaze and holds Castiel’s steady. He nods. </p><p>***</p><p>
  
</p><p>Castiel should be freezing. He’s been sitting on the beach to the right of the prison for nearly half an hour at this point. There’s sand in his shoes and some in his asscrack, the unfortunate result of sitting down <em> before </em>adjusting his pants. That’s a mistake you only make once, but that doesn’t help him now.</p><p>Maybe he actually <em> is </em>frozen. Descending into the late stages of hypothermia and unaware that he’s lost all indicative feeling in his limbs. Perhaps it was only adrenaline and worry keeping him warm, and by the time all of that wore off, he was already too numb to notice the cold. </p><p>He should probably go inside. Or go <em> home. </em>Although, managing a motorcycle with partially frostbitten hands can’t be an incredibly safe venture, but at least he’s stone-cold sober.</p><p>Castiel doesn’t move.</p><p>There’s something calming and reassuring about the ocean at night. He stares out over the quiet waves, the surface of the water sparkling brightly beneath the pale reflection of a nearly-full moon. Castiel takes a deep breath (for what is probably the thousandth time since he left Dean’s room in medical) of fresh, salty air before steadily blowing it back out. </p><p>This time, when he swipes the screen of his phone open and scrolls his contacts, he doesn’t chicken out. </p><p><em> Calling Cain, </em>his phone says, making it seem like such a simple, easy thing. </p><p>It’s not that Castiel is worried about the time—if he knows Cain, the man’s as likely to be wide awake at midnight as he is at noon—it’s the ethical dilemma he’s placed himself in. While Dean is undoubtedly his priority (both as his current patient and the fact that he’s currently wrapped up in a life-threatening crisis), Cain is Castiel’s friend too. Friend <em> and </em>former patient, and if caring about him in general wasn’t enough, Castiel knows perfectly well that what he’s about to ask Cain to do could render null and void all the work and effort Cain has put in over the past several years to be free and to live the life he wants.</p><p>His hesitation in dialing is only because Castiel knows that he’s going to ask anyway. </p><p>Over the past few weeks, something has shifted inside him. Dean has gone from a side project to a priority. From a virtual stranger Castiel felt pity (and yes, a strange attraction) towards, to someone much more important. The more time they spend together and the more of his true personality Dean reveals, the more attached Castiel finds himself feeling. <em> This </em>is undoubtedly what his former superiors meant when they questioned his loyalties, but Castiel didn’t care then and he doesn’t care now. </p><p>Dean is <em> special, </em>and Castiel meant every word he said to him tonight. </p><p>It <em> should </em>probably concern him, how little he cares about virtually throwing Cain under the bus for this man, but he reasons that he’s not forcing anyone to do anything against their will. At the end of the day, Cain is an adult, he makes his own decisions. If he wants to say no, to back out of this whole damn mess, there isn’t a thing Castiel can do about it.</p><p>He hopes and believes that Cain won’t, only slightly more than the other option.</p><p>“Talk,” Cain answers gruffly. “Better be good, you’re interrupting an attempt to imbibe an entire fifth of whiskey without help.” </p><p>“You may need it when I’m done,” Castiel replies, hand that isn’t holding the phone digging into the cold sand next to his hip. It sifts through his fingers like water.</p><p>There’s silence on the other end of the line and then, “It’s time, isn’t it?” </p><p>Frowning, Castiel <em> once again </em>desperately wishes they were face to face, so he could see Cain’s body language, analyze his facial expressions. “Come again?”</p><p>“Something happened with your boy, the one that started all this. <em> Dean Winchester. </em> The kid Crowley had picked up. Come on, Castiel, I’m not as dumb as everyone else around you, never forget that. You don’t send a guy on a deep dive into the worst parts of his own past and not expect that <em> someday, </em>part two of that request is coming.”</p><p>“Fair enough,” Castiel replies guardedly. “And your answer?”</p><p>“My answer is fuck no to you,” Cain replies easily, and Castiel’s heart sinks. But then he adds, “It’s fuck <em> you </em>to Crowley. That asshole took what I built and made it everything I never, ever would have allowed. It’s a slap in the face, retired or not. Did you know that your boy’s lawyer is the county D.A.? He’s not a damn P.D., Castiel.” </p><p>The swift change of topic has Castiel’s exhausted mind spinning, but he works to keep up. He owes Cain that much. “I—no, I wasn’t aware of that. I took Dean’s word that he was, but—that explains Alfie, actually.”</p><p>“Alfie?” </p><p>As briefly as possible, Castiel fills Cain in on the happenings of the last twenty-four hours or so, including the reason for his call. By the time he’s done, Cain’s gone dead-silent again and Castiel is sure that he can no longer feel any of his fingers or toes. He <em> really </em>needs to get up. “Cain?” he prompts, a pit in his stomach, half-hoping the call dropped.</p><p>“Here’s the deal,” Cain replies, tone carefully measured. “We’re going to take this motherfucker down, if I have to step in and take either his or Abby’s position myself. Crowley’s not the head of the Knights—Abby’s above him, she’s <em> my </em> successor. And while her and me aren’t on the greatest of terms, I’m... <em> eighty </em>percent sure she’d pick me over that asshole, push comes to shove.” </p><p>“Cain, I don’t want you to—”</p><p>“Don’t lie to me Castiel,” Cain warns, and Castiel opts to close his mouth.</p><p>“Thing is, I’m remiss to put anything into motion without getting <em> personal </em>assurance that Mr. Winchester is on board with it all. You understand. I’m going to want exactly one thing from him in return, and I want to ask him for it in person. So here’s what I’ll do. Starting tonight, the brother is under my protection. You don’t need details. The rest comes after Dean and I speak. Set it up and get back to me by early evening tomorrow, or I assume the deal is off the table and I feed Sam to the wolves.” </p><p>“One thing? Cain, I’m not—I appreciate the help, more than you know. But I can’t ask Dean to indebt himself to your group all over again, you must know that.”</p><p>“Haven’t we been through enough together, Castiel? I don’t have any reason to hold Dean against his will, but <em> he’s </em>the one who has to choose to get out, not you.” Cain pauses and seems to think for a moment before continuing. “Alright, old friend, I’ll give you that much. No strings for Dean, long as he doesn’t want them. All I need is for him to agree to challenge Crowley for the position of Top Dog, and to follow through on assuming it. At least until he’s released. We’ll ensure that happens, too.”</p><p>“That’s it?” Castiel asks faintly. He’s been too entwined in prison politics, too caught up in the tit-for-tat of mob rule to believe outright that’s all there will be to this. But then again, he’s always believed that Cain is innately good.</p><p>“Consider it part of the favor I owe you,” Cain replies. “You once gave me my life back, and I—you know what? Don’t make me overthink it. I might change my mind.” Castiel relaxes slightly, Cain’s tone as close as it ever comes to joking around, which feels like a relief. He opens his mouth to reply and sees the phone go dark out of the corner of his eye—Cain hung up. Of course he did.</p><p>Mind whirling, Castiel drags himself to his numb feet, brushing off the sand and trudging back inside the Bay. It’s dark from the lobby all the way through the administrative hallways, lights on low as they always are overnight. Yawning, Castiel opens his office door and then deadbolts it behind him. He checks that all the blinds are closed completely before stripping down to boxers and a t-shirt. From inside the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, he withdraws a thick fleece blanket, kept here for emergencies, just like his hygiene supplies. </p><p>Collapsing onto his couch, Castiel closes his eyes and sighs, pleased to finally be warm and resting. He figures it’ll be better for everyone if he just catches a few hours of sleep here before going right back to work. It doesn’t feel safe to leave at the moment, not with everything so unstable. He thinks vaguely about the guard he sent to keep watch outside H1 for the rest of the night, hoping he didn’t choose wrong. He doesn’t want to chance Dean having to make excuses to anyone else about why he needs to stay in AdSeg, or worse, enacting another chair-throwing tantrum.</p><p>The pillow he’s laying on smells vaguely <em> like </em> Dean, which is a pleasant surprise. It’s probably from the way he was hugging it to hide his cards during their session, and Castiel is too damn tired to pretend that’s not soothing, not comforting. For once, he doesn’t flog and chastise himself away from the fantasy where he gets to comfort Dean with more than a gentle squeeze of his hand. He’s gleaned that underneath his hard exterior, Dean is a touchy-sort of man, that he <em> misses </em>platonic hugs and contact, and Castiel wishes more than anything he could give it to him.</p><p>It’s so unprofessional, so <em> wrong </em> to consider what he’s learned from their sessions in that way, even in the privacy of his own mind. Still, Castiel lies to himself, arguing in his head that as long as he doesn’t actually <em> use </em> the information to seduce or romance Dean, then he’s not doing anything wrong. Of course, that’s the precise moment when his brain decides to remind him that <em> Dean </em>is the one who brought up Castiel sleeping with ex-patients and—</p><p><em> No, </em>Castiel thinks, as firmly as he can. He shoves the entire train of thought out of his head and forces his mind to go blank. </p><p><em> Go the fuck to sleep, </em>he tells himself.</p><p>Castiel does.</p><p>He also forgets to set an alarm.</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Dean POV, Crowley's punishment isn't what Dean expected, and Dean is forced to make a terrible choice.</p><p>I had to split this chapter, so if you are hanging on for things to get better, I just need ONE more week of pain and then I promise it will start to, lol. All of the good things are on the way and there is still a whole ass murder-mystery to come 👀</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <i>In the words of the immortal Charlie Gunn, “Never give up, never surrender.”</i>
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          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Bit of a shorter one this week, since I had to split the previous chapter. This gets a bit dark, but I PROMISE this is the lowest low for Dean and the others. From next week forward, things WILL begin to get better. This is the virtual end of the dubcon/noncon situations as well, I know some people were looking out for that. Hopefully, the story gets even more exciting, though. ;) Thank you all for your ongoing comments and support, they have really been buoying me through these difficult times.</p><p>This chapter now contains art of Dean by the talented and generous <a href="https://reaperlove77.tumblr.com/post/643908084485455872/inspired-by-break-on-through-by-the-wonderful">reaperlove77</a>, please go leave them some love!!!</p><p>Chapter-specific warnings (SPOILERS AHEAD):<br/>—&gt; non-graphic gang rape/assault of a character that is not Dean “off-screen.” This is not described in any detail, but you are aware it is happening.<br/>—&gt;extreme emotional distress on Dean’s part, semi-dissociation, struggle to stay in reality<br/>—&gt;minor violence—a character gets knocked unconscious<br/>—&gt;blackmail, coercion, threats towards Dean regarding Sam.<br/>Please feel free to suggest warnings if you don't feel these are adequate.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</p><p>It surprises Dean exactly not at all when sleep doesn’t come easily. Maybe an hour after Cas leaves, he’s still wide awake on his gurney. Stuck tossing and turning, head pounding and kind of hot on the side of his face where some guard attempted to fuse his skin with the library carpet, it’s not the most settled he’s ever been at the Bay. The discomfort is annoying, but Dean really can’t complain. He could be, you know, <em> dead </em>right now. A little rugburn is hardly something to bitch about. </p><p>Even still, Tessa comes to check on him around two a.m., and when she offers up some Tylenol P.M.—the kind with the antihistamine in it—Dean can’t bring himself to refuse. He knows he should get some rest while he’s safe and not having to constantly watch his back, so with his time in Medical running short, it seems smart to take any help he can get. After all, who the hell knows what wild plan Cas is going to come up with next, expecting miracles and probably delivering disappointment.</p><p>That’s not the mindset he’s supposed to be keeping, but Dean is who he is.</p><p>Yeah, he promised Cas he’d have faith in him, whatever the fuck that means. And yeah, this <em> is </em> pretty much his last hope, so it’s not like Dean has a plethora of choices here. But at the end of the day, if he’s being truthful—and what he tells himself inside his own head is really the only thing left that Dean can truly control, so let’s say he <em> is</em>—it felt <em> good </em>to unload on Cas. </p><p>It felt <em> good </em> to talk to someone about his dad and Sam, to actually <em> use </em> Cas and his big fuckin’ brain for their actual purpose. For the reason Dean’s been seeing him all these weeks but was too afraid to speak about. He’s <em> never </em> told anybody some of the details he spilled to Cas tonight, never even <em> alluded </em> to having some of those thoughts and fears. And to be brutally honest, he probably didn’t <em> need </em>to tell Cas all of the shit he did, but as it turns out, Dean’s repressed memories and emotions are like a fuckin’ can of Pringles. Once you pop and all that. </p><p>He should probably feel shittier, what with the way the whole thing went down. Should probably be more worried about whatever it is Cas is doing with the information <em> Dean </em>gave him. Should be freaking out over whether he’s putting Sam at greater risk and if Cas getting involved in the first place is going to wind up being everyone’s downfall. </p><p>On the other hand—<em>Cain. </em> The <em> one </em>name Cas could have dropped that really did change the game, and that son of a bitch was holding the trump card all along.</p><p>When you’re at the end of your rope the way Dean is, it’s damn hard <em> not </em> to cling to something like that. Damn hard <em> not </em> to believe that a handsome, kind-eyed man who keeps your secrets and holds your hand and tells you to fuckin’ <em> hope, </em> like that ain’t a boat that sailed away from the harbor years ago, might have a point. </p><p>Dean could try to lie to himself some more, but he’s goddamn <em> tired. </em> The truth is, it’s nice to see a glimmer of light at the end of the very dark tunnel in which he lives. But perspective—he has to keep it. <em> Has </em> to. Yeah, he can hope for the best, can try and believe that Cas and Cain will come through in the clutch, but for <em> right now, </em> for all Dean knows, that light is a train. He’s still very much on his own until proven otherwise. He <em> still </em>has to prepare for the worst-case scenario.</p><p>So he figures he’ll sleep. </p><p>And then deal with whatever comes next.</p><p>***</p><p>“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” </p><p>Dean wakes with a start, Benadryl clouding his senses and making him extra groggy. The head of his bed is still half-elevated, so the jolting upright he does probably isn’t necessary, but by the time Dean realizes that, it’s too late. As a result, his head spins and his blood pressure dips and his already sleep-blurred vision hazes over at the edges.</p><p>“Ugh,” Dean grunts, flopping back down so that he doesn’t pass out completely. The bed shakes a little underneath him, but his vision returns to normal. Unfortunately, neither his situation nor the view have changed, <em> except— </em></p><p>“Rise and shine, lazybones. It’s discharge day!” </p><p>The nurse leaning on her forearm in the doorway’s frame isn’t Tessa. It’s <em> Meg, </em> and Dean wouldn’t subject himself to that bitch’s care or company if he was literally knock knock knocking on Heaven’s door. “Oh, hell no,” he says, abruptly wide awake and terrified, because Meg isn’t alone. <em> Alastair </em>is loitering in the hall behind her, looking smug and sneering openly at Dean. </p><p>“What the fuck. Dude, no. You can’t discharge me. Tessa—<em>your </em> doc told Tessa I had to stay. Plus Cas—Dr. Novak—dude, call him. He doesn’t want me discharged, I—”</p><p>“Aww, that’s cute, Dean-o, but Dr. Novak doesn’t run this place and he doesn’t overrule Medical. I talked to the <em> real </em>doctor <em>early, </em> early this morning, told him how you’ve been wide awake and asking to leave. How you’re holding up a bed for nothing more than a little scrape-y poo on your cute little face. It was five a.m., so the doc was pretty tired himself. All too happy to give me the all-clear to send you back to the pod without a second thought. And as for our precious Dr. Novak? He’s sleeping, he had a rough night. I think waking him would be <em> rude, </em> don’t you? But I’ll be sure to pass the message along <em> personally </em>when he wakes up.” Meg smirks and winks as she tips her head forward and steps out of the way, signaling for Alastair to enter the room.</p><p>“Where’s Tessa? She was supposed to be here,” Dean growls. </p><p>“Oh, baby, you just don’t know when to quit, do you, sugar? Tessa left. She was just <em> so </em>exhausted, totally relieved to head home just as soon as I was able to come in. Turns out my “family emergency” wasn’t so serious after all. Thank God I was able to make it in for the morning shift!” </p><p><em> Holy fuck, </em> Dean thinks. <em> How deep does Crowley’s reach go? </em></p><p>At the side of his bed now, Alastair leers down at Dean, grabbing him by the bicep and the back of his pants to haul him upright onto his feet. “Cooperate, Dean,” he snarls. The nasally twang of his voice grates like nails on a chalkboard and he smells, worse today than usual. Dean winces and tries to hide his reaction, but Meg laughs, even as Dean’s yanked roughly forward and out into the hall.</p><p>“Don’t worry, cupcake,” she calls after him, voice mocking and sing-song. “Context clues have me thinking we’ll be seeing each other again real soon!”</p><p>Dean doesn’t make it easy for Alastair to lead him away, dragging his feet and generally just being as obstinate and difficult as possible. “<em>Move </em> it, Winchester,” he demands, but Dean doesn’t even dignify him with a reply. He does check the exterior windows as they move past the classroom and Cas’ office (<em>closed and dark, fuck). </em>The sun is already peeking determinedly through the early-morning dusk outside, so between that and the timing of Meg’s phone call, Dean puts the hour at just before six a.m.</p><p>The housing blocks are going to open at any second. </p><p>He’s being <em> hand-fucking-delivered </em> to Crowley, <em> oh, fuck.  </em></p><p>Upping the low-key struggle against Alastair’s grip to buy time, Dean fights the rising panic in his chest and tries to think, tries <em> not </em>to look like he’s about to pass out from pure fear. As he’s paraded by H2, he sees Gordon standing at the bars, eyes wild and angry, teeth bared and practically snapping like a rabid, caged animal in Dean’s direction. </p><p>“Fuck you, Gordo,” Dean says, just because he can, and because Gordon hates that nickname.</p><p>
  <em> In the words of the immortal Charlie Gunn, “Never give up, never surrender.” </em>
</p><p>As they pass the shower block, approaching H1 and the end of the hall, Dean notices that the camera pointing into H1’s unit has already been pushed to the side. Presumably by the broom sitting innocuously underneath. That sight and the impending horror it conveys immediately makes everything Dean’s about to face become very, <em> very </em>real. </p><p>It’s the camera that has Dean feeling like he’s going to lose it. Like he’s completely lost control and he’s <em> scared</em>. Briefly, he closes his eyes and does something kind of crazy—he prays. Prays as if <em> any </em> one up there gives a fuck, as if anyone is listening. After about three seconds of throwing wishes to the sky, he gives up. It just feels silly, but at the same time, in for a penny...Dean shifts gears, praying to <em> Cas </em> instead. It’s crazy, it’s hopeless, but fuck. Cas <em> did </em>say he was named after an angel. </p><p>If nothing else, he puts out into the universe that he hopes Cas knows how grateful Dean is that he tried. Tried to listen, to help. Dean hopes that even if he doesn’t make it out of this mess alive, Cas might still see things through, might have it in him to look out for Sammy in the process. </p><p>“Dead man walking,” Alastair sneers, right as the iron gate to H1 beeps and slowly slides open. Like the comic-book villain he is, Crowley’s waiting on the other side, fully dressed and looking <em> way </em>too chipper for six a.m. His goons are milling around behind him, messing with coffee and snacks, and Alfie is sitting in a chair to the left of their dining room table. He looks nervous but generally unharmed, so that’s something, at least.</p><p>“Good morning, Dean,” Crowley says pleasantly. His stupid muddled accent grates almost as much as Alastair’s twang, or maybe Dean just hates the world today. It’s probably that. “How kind of your little doctor friend to send us a guard to ensure you can’t run away again.” </p><p>Alastair shoves him forward, so roughly that Dean has to flail and trip over his own two feet in order to not tumble directly into Crowley’s arms. The gag-worthy image of that scenario floating through his head is enough for Dean to opt to drop into a crouch instead. Which, of course, has Crowley snorting. “If I wanted you on your knees, I’d just ask.”</p><p>Dusting himself off, Dean stands and pretends to be unbothered by the mockery, by the entire situation. He draws himself up, using every inch of his height to tower over Crowley and refuse him the natural upper hand. He can’t help that he’s exhausted, though, the remnants of the sleeping pill still sifting its way through his system, and he can’t imagine it doesn’t show on his face.</p><p>“Let’s get this over with,” he says, as confidently as he can muster.</p><p>“Ah, indeed,” Crowley replies agreeably, and the particular note of pleasure in his tone has Dean frowning, realizing<em> way </em>too late that something is very wrong here. “You,” he says, snapping his fingers at one of the exceptionally built dudes leaning against the inner wall of the housing block. The guy shoves the remainder of whatever he’s eating into his mouth before straightening up. “Take care of our friend, Mr. Alastair.” </p><p>As the guy makes his way towards where Alastair is still lurking in the doorway, Crowley turns his attention back to Dean. “You have a decision to make, Mr. Winchester, and limited time in which to make it. As you likely have not yet figured out—because your brain is the size of a squirrel’s and boasts the same attention span—my associate is going to knock your escort unconscious.”</p><p>If Dean feels any relief that Alastair isn’t due to be a part of whatever’s going to happen next, he’s deprived of taking even one single moment to enjoy it.</p><p>Crowley continues, “Before that happens, he needs to know whether it was <em> you </em>that knocked him out, or whether he was caught unawares and didn’t see his attacker coming.”</p><p>
  <em> Record scratch.  </em>
</p><p>“Wait, what?” </p><p>“Try to keep up,” Crowley says with an exaggerated, put-upon sigh, snapping his fingers in Dean’s face. “Oh, you really haven’t sorted out your punishment?” </p><p>“Uh—”</p><p>“Of course you haven’t. See: squirrel brain.” Crowley’s really turning up the smarm, now, and Dean would resent it, but he’s <em> genuinely </em>preoccupied trying to figure out what the fuck is going on and what’s expected of him, here. None of this makes any sense, unless—</p><p>“Are the gears turning, yet? Dean, what would you possibly learn if I allowed you to simply take Alfie’s place? That standing up to me <em> works </em>? That you do have some semblance of control, after all?” Shaking his head, Crowley steps forward into Dean’s space before pinching his cheek. Dean lets him, but inside his mind he thinks about scooping Crowley’s eyes out with melon ballers. “You’re lucky you were born pretty, Squirrel. That brother of yours was the only Winchester offspring to inherit anything between the ears.” </p><p>Instantly, Dean’s blood boils, fists clenching at his sides as Crowley casually steps away, knowing exactly what he did. He smirks, whirling around and allowing his eyes to linger on Dean’s reflexive fighting stance. “Relax,” he says. “All you have to do is stand there.” </p><p>“Spell it out for me, Crowley,” Dean grinds out from between clenched teeth, unbelievably done with the petty games.</p><p>“We do have to get a move on,” Crowley agrees. “Right. So, the choice is simple: you keep watch while my friends and I throw Alfie there a welcome party, or Sam will be the Knight’s newest errand boy come nightfall and you’ll go down for assaulting a guard.” Crowley raises his eyebrows, watching with glee as the gravity of what he’s said sinks in. “Clock’s ticking, Dean. Sixty seconds, and then Alastair will be walking up with <em> your </em>name on his tongue.” </p><p>Panicked, Dean glances over at Alfie, whose eyes are glued to the hands twisting in his lap. He looks nothing but resigned, maybe a little sad. “I—No, Crowley, come on. It doesn’t have to be this way. I’m fucking <em> volunteering. </em>”</p><p>“It <em> does, </em> Squirrel, and that’s the point,” Crowley hisses, all pretense of the smarmy calm he’s been projecting disappearing in an instant. He strides forward and takes Dean’s chin between two fingers, squeezing so tightly it hurts. “It’s this way because I <em> say </em> it is, and no other reason. Your place is to act as I tell you, and you’d do well to learn that sooner rather than later. Don’t forget that even <em> this </em> lesson is a <em> gift. </em> After what you did, I’d be well within the bounds of our contract to take Sam now.” </p><p>“No,” Dean protests quietly, a tear slipping from one eye. He swallows hard and this time, he patently does <em> not </em>look in Alfie’s direction. “Please. Please. Leave Sam out of it.” </p><p>“Can I take that to the bank? You’ll stand guard and keep your mouth shut?”</p><p>Trembling from nearly head to toe, Dean forces his voice to keep steady as he replies, “Yes.” </p><p>“Can’t hear you, Winchester. Did I hear you right? You’re trading Alfie for Sam?” </p><p>“<em>Yes,</em>” Dean replies, voice breaking. He thinks about that light being a train, can’t help but wonder, <em> where the fuck is Cas now? </em>“But you could take me, instead.”</p><p>“I could,” Crowley says, a thin strand of amusement threading through his voice as he rips his hand away roughly, jerking Dean’s head to the side as he goes. Dean stays tipped to the side, eyes locked on the floor, too ashamed to look up. “But then you wouldn’t learn anything. Boys!” </p><p>Around him, Dean can see various shapes moving around in a tear-filled blur. Colors, bodies, one fading into the next, Alfie being tugged away behind an already-open door. He can hear Alastair say, “Make it look real,” before the sickening sound of Grunt Number One’s fist connecting with the side of his face almost echoes off the walls. He goes down like a brick, but Dean doesn’t even even glance his way. </p><p>Alfie’s quiet. He doesn’t scream or cry, though he does make an occasional pained, pathetic moan that drifts out from his cell and makes Dean’s heart seize up in his chest. Makes his dry-as-the-Sahara throat desperate to scream. Everything in his peripheral vision stays blurry, and maybe that’s Dean’s brain working overtime in his defense. If he had to see what was going on—</p><p>Dean can’t even think about it. He stands as far away as possible, in the doorway to the housing block, ignoring Alastair’s unconscious body to his right. Where he fell is just out of sight from the traffic in the hall. Dean ignores the people coming and going from the shower block, just thirty or so feet away. </p><p>The <em> only </em>thing Dean can see, in stark technicolor and with perfect clarity, is the panic button.</p><p>It sits there mounted to the wall, all shiny and red with its eye-catching yellow box, tempting him. <em> Begging </em> him. Alfie may not be crying out loud, but Dean’s head is full of <em> nothing </em>but Alfie’s voice and his screams. Or maybe they’re memories of his own, Dean’s not even sure anymore. The mental onslaught is nearly enough to take him to his knees, but Dean resists, holding onto the metal bars of the gate if he needs more support. </p><p>The panic button mocks him. </p><p>It’d be so fucking easy to press it, but <em> then what? </em> What if Cas never did get ahold of Cain? What if Cain told him to go pound sand? Dean doesn’t know shit, doesn’t know <em> anything </em>about what’s going on in the outside world right now. For all he knows, someone from the Knights has Sam in their clutches already. For all he knows, if Dean doesn’t play nice, Sam won’t be manipulated into the fold, he’ll be shot dead or worse. </p><p>What Dean <em>does </em>know is exactly what Crowley is capable of, because he’s goddamn living proof. He’s seen what the guy is willing to do—drug people, trade them, kill them in cold blood. </p><p>He can’t risk Sam, he <em> can’t.  </em></p><p>Cas would be so fucking disappointed in him.</p><p>Dean stares at the panic button until his eyes burn and his legs feel like jello. Until Crowley wanders out of Alfie’s cell looking mussed, with two bodyguards holding his shower supplies trailing behind. He claps Dean on the shoulder and it feels like brushing contact with Death himself. Dean has to fight not to vomit all over him.</p><p>Two of the guys are still in Alfie’s cell. </p><p>“You did good,” Crowley says lightly, like it’s all <em> nothing, nothing at all, </em> like Dean didn’t just hand over the last tiny piece of his own humanity along with any hope he was clinging to<em>. </em>Dean’s eyes bore like lasers into the shiny red of the panic button as Crowley strides away.</p><p>He thinks about it. He <em> wants </em>to do it, wants to send them all to hell and damn the consequences.</p><p>But he doesn’t press it.</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm so sorry! I have an offering of an 11k fluffy and smutty one-shot featuring best-friend covid-nurses Dean and Cas that you can find <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250465">HERE</a>, written to make it up to you?!?! *hides face* </p><p>Next time: A guilty-feeling Cas works to pick up Dean’s pieces while he rips the prison apart, Cain has some questions (and answers) for Dean, Crowley’s going down and it’s a group effort, Dean does have friends and they forgive him. Lines get crossed, and there’s no going back.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A guilty-feeling Cas works to pick up Dean’s pieces while he rips the prison apart, Cain has some questions (and answers) for Dean, Crowley’s going down and it’s a group effort, Dean does have friends and they forgive him. Lines get crossed, and there’s no going back.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry again for the delay. Things have just been getting to me lately, it's hard to feel the spark that makes me crazy about writing Destiel when things are so shitty. Anyway, please accept this 10k chapter and the beginning of things getting better all-around as an apology. Thank you to @coinofstone for editing this more than once, lol.</p><p>**Chapter Warnings** (light, but they do include SPOILERS):</p><p>—&gt; very brief minor violence (Castiel to Alastair)<br/>—&gt;References to previous traumatic events including rape and assault, corruption, blackmail and manipulation, plus thoughts/discussion about feeling depressed and hopeless.<br/>—&gt;brief description of Alfie’s injuries in a medical context<br/>—&gt;the gray area re: Cas &amp; Dean's relationship starts here—Cas has thoughts about how much he cares for Dean and he knows he's over the line. They have some innocent physical contact/comfort that Dean clearly desires. While this could be viewed as institutional abuse due to the inherent power imbalance, it is not going to be treated that way.</p><p>Please let me know if I missed something--one of these days I will remember to track warnings as I write, today is not that day. If there is a missing warning, it is not intentional and I apologize.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s only late in the day, when the sun is already going down and Castiel is seated beside Alfie’s bed in MedSeg, that he really allows his anger at himself to sink in. All of that planning, all of that <em>work,</em> flushed. All of the effort he’d expended to keep Dean and the other prisoners safe, and Castiel blew it for everyone by simply forgetting to set an alarm. </p><p>He leans back on the creaking legs of the chair he dragged in from the infirmary across the way and grinds his teeth. It’s a nervous habit, one he’s had for years, and it’s caused him more grief and visits to the dentist than Castiel cares to admit. If only because he knows he’s on the verge of permanent damage to his mouth, Castiel consciously unclenches and works his jaw until it relaxes. He feels vulnerable, <em> stupid, </em>certainly not deserving of even the slight relief that action brings. In response to the wave of self-hate, he tightens the way his arms are wound across his chest and breathes out, long and slow.</p><p>Dean wouldn’t see him. Castiel tried—after sending Alfie off in the ambulance, after ensuring that Meg was sequestered and Alastair was being held in Medical pending an interview. At that point, Dean was heading from breakfast down to the laundry, and Castiel caught him in the hall. One look at Dean’s face revealed the most pressing answers to the fearful questions running through his mind, but Dean shook him off like a wet umbrella. </p><p>Unfortunately, Castiel didn’t have the time to argue. To chase Dean down the hall and drag him back to the safe space known as his office. Not when so many other balls were up in the air, poised to come crashing down. Not when he <em> knew </em> that this <em> situation </em>with Alfie directly connected Crowley not only to Alastair but Meg, too, and that he had a very limited window to prove that was the case.</p><p>So Castiel let Dean go, fully intending to circle back and find him later, when things were more settled. When the prison was<em> safe. </em> Even still, watching Dean’s sad face and despondent, hunched form shuffle away was one of the hardest things Castiel has <em> ever </em>had to endure in the name of doing his job. And maybe in his personal life, too.</p><p>That painful image of a depressed Dean remained burned into Castiel’s mind’s eye for the rest of the day. Every single thing he subsequently worked and fought for was driven almost solely by the blistering need to seek justice for Alfie and expiation for Dean. The visual simply added fuel to the fire.</p><p>And the fire <em> burned. </em></p><p>Castiel used it. He pushed—pushed harder than he probably should have as a newer member of the team here at the Bay—but after all, this was the <em>essence, </em>the very pinnacle of what Naomi recruited him here to do. He gathered evidence carefully, interviewing first Meg and then Alastair, taking notes and (at least at first) doing his best to act both neutral and impartial in their presence.</p><p>Naomi did the same in reverse, the two of them meeting in the hallway to exchange tips and weary glances as they switched places. After that, it was on to interrogating Crowley himself and then every member of H1, all of whom claimed to be in the shower block when both assaults occurred. Of course, Crowley was readily able to produce a list of supposedly impartial inmates to witness for him, all regurgitating the <em> exact </em>same story with no deviation—not a surprise. </p><p>Neither Castiel nor Naomi bought that rehearsed version of events, though, and Castiel didn’t think the Board would, either. Mostly because it left no reasonable explanation for what <em> did </em>happen, but an alibi was an alibi. Castiel’s only option was to figure out how to eliminate it or prove there was staff corruption and bribery going on. If he could out Alastair and Meg as the co-conspirators they were, then the real story would essentially reveal itself.</p><p><em> Complicated. Exhausting. </em>Castiel pushed on.</p><p>For her part, Meg wouldn’t say much of anything at all during her face-to-face with Castiel. She mainly focused on teasing him about his name and his hair, smirking smugly up at him from her seat and claiming complete ignorance of anything except doing her job. The way she seamlessly segued from <em> flirting </em> into defending her choice to circumvent Castiel’s direct instructions had him seeing red. The way she so <em> clearly </em>orchestrated the manipulation of Tessa and pretended she didn’t had Castiel struggling to swallow his fury and sit on his own hands. He wanted to rip her limb from limb for what he knew she’d done—but all good things in time. </p><p>In contrast, Alastair claimed to remember nothing at all. The full-on amnesia defense, Castiel shouldn’t have been surprised. That interview was short, although Castiel’s carefully constructed mask of indifference fell quickly. Part of it was guilt—<em>he </em> sent Alastair to guard H1. It was <em> Castiel’s </em>mistake in trusting this man that opened the door for the event to happen at all. </p><p>But part of his slip came back to simple rage. Alastair was so cocksure, so smarmy, sitting in the infirmary with an icepack pressed to his head. Like <em> he </em> was a victim. Like he didn’t sell his humanity and his soul for a couple of dollars. After Meg, it was more than he could take. Castiel wasn’t one to compare himself to others and certainly didn’t consider himself <em> above </em> any other human just trying to get by—but this man? In his presence, Castiel felt <em> righteous. </em> Just the sight of Alastair felt like proof he was evil incarnate, and Castiel should have seen his true face, should have <em> known.  </em></p><p><em> His </em> fault, <em> his </em>mess to clean, and an administrative punishment didn’t feel adequate, here. </p><p>Alastair’s betrayal felt <em> personal. </em></p><p>But he couldn’t very well actually <em> hurt </em>the man. Not without losing his job and therefore the ability to help Dean and the rest of the suffering prison. He could scare him, though. He could make him a promise, one that Castiel felt more and more certain he’d go to his grave to keep. So when the opportunity of a closed curtain and an otherwise empty room came up, Castiel snapped.</p><p>He grabbed Alastair by the front of his uniform shirt and spoke his mind, damn the consequences. “I know what you’ve done,” Castiel growled, face only inches from the injured guard’s surprised one. He stank like sour sweat and decay, and Castiel was never more sure that some people are simply rotten from the inside out. “And you will pay.” </p><p>Alastair didn’t so much as blink, his oily smile only spreading at the sight of Castiel’s fury, his ire. He <em> laughed, </em>and Castiel saw red yet again. It was all he could do to clench his fists tighter in the fabric of the man’s shirt, to resist adding more color to the bruises decorating the side of his face.</p><p>“I'm sorry,” Alastair said in his mocking, nasally whine. “This is a very serious, very emotional situation for you. I shouldn't laugh, it's just that—I mean, are you serious? You’re not going to hurt me and I’m not gonna spill my guts. Fancy bluster, but you’re soft and gooey at the center, you don’t even belong here.” </p><p>“That makes two of us,” Castiel replied evenly, shoving Alastair roughly back onto his cot before turning away. He scrubbed his hands down the length of his thighs, but it didn’t make them feel clean. “Keep your confession. I’m not God, so I can’t grant you forgiveness, but neither do I need it to seek retribution and justice in your victims’ names.” </p><p>As Castiel stomped from the room with his blood boiling, Alastair’s laugh chased after him down the empty hall. He was glad the man couldn’t see his involuntary shiver.</p><p>The only other interview Castiel conducted was with Alfie, right after he was found in his cell. Easily the most difficult, and not for the content, as there really wasn’t any. Alfie had been conscious when he was sent out by ambulance for evaluation. He was awake and talking and the little he said he made very clear from the jump that he would not be identifying any of the people who hurt him. Alfie wouldn’t even confirm or deny whether his attackers were all fellow inmates. </p><p>While Castiel expected as much, hearing Alfie essentially <em> protecting </em>his abusers hurt. Outwardly, he nodded his acceptance, but inwardly, Castiel found a new peak for his hatred and resentment of the way prisoners always chose to naturally close ranks. </p><p>The toxicity was unparalleled—the way these people were forced to sacrifice themselves and their friends in order to protect the wolves among them who didn’t deserve it. Who terrorized their sheep and acted like <em> monsters, </em>only giving thanks for said shielding by rewarding their victims with additional violence and fear. The prison system was broken in general, but Castiel felt that the inmate culture it necessitated was absolutely one of the most regretful and nightmarish parts.</p><p>Accepting that Alfie had said all he cared to, Castiel accompanied the young man and the paramedics out to the ambulance. He walked beside where Alfie lay tense and still on the stretcher, blood-splattered sheet draped loosely around his small body. As they moved through the prison, Castiel determinedly kept a hand on Alfie’s shoulder. He spoke quietly, letting Alfie know that he’d be there when he returned, that he’d do whatever he could to help him heal. </p><p>Castiel tried to emphasize the <em> anything </em> and how much he meant it. Tried to convey the apology in his tone and the veiled hope behind it. He pleaded with inadequate words and wanting platitudes to convey to Alfie that he wasn’t alone, that there were more people on his side in so many more ways than he knew. Tried to encourage him to believe that things <em> would </em>get better, because if nothing else, Castiel wouldn’t accept anything less. </p><p>Unfortunately, there were too many prying eyes and ears around them for him to say much else. As Castiel stood in the cold and watched the ambulance pull away, all flashing red lights and irritating sirens, one thing was clear. Letting Alfie in on the plan needed to skyrocket to the top of Castiel’s “to do” list for later that evening. Presuming he was medically cleared and returned by then, of course. Truthfully, Castiel’s not sure Alfie wouldn’t be better off staying in the hospital for a few days, but if not, <em> real hope </em>might be the best medicine available.</p><p>He went back inside, the air filling the prison never having felt as heavy, as <em> stifling </em>as it did today. Finding Naomi in the officer’s break room, they huddled together around the brewing coffee pot and hastily compared notes, swiftly crafting a plan to present to the Board. After they’d compiled what they could and ensured that the two of them were on the same page, Naomi and Castiel were onto several grueling meetings that took up the remainder of the business day.</p><p>Zachariah and several other members of the Board had been milling around for <em> hours. </em>They showed up swiftly after Naomi reported the incident by phone, flooding the admin section of the prison to drink coffee and make various obnoxious demands. Most of them were concerned about their monetary investments in the Bay and the hit their reputations might take if and when the media were tipped about Alfie—Castiel hated them. </p><p>Soulless, emotionless <em> greed </em> monsters, treating the inmates of the Bay like nothing more important than collateral for their stock portfolios, this job was nothing more than a bragging point on a resume to them. People like these were the very reason Castiel was <em> so </em> willing to engage with someone like Cain—what was <em> expected </em> and what was <em> right </em> were often not the same thing in the correctional world. If Castiel needed to work outside the rules to leverage the playing field for the people being used as pawns, he’d never regret doing so. Not for Dean, not for <em> any </em>of them, not for one second.</p><p>Granted, the Board members technically had every right to be there and to be concerned. If they actually gave a shit about the situation, their presence—in theory—could have been useful. In reality, they weren’t helping anything along. They were mostly just bickering, getting in the way, and asking questions that no one had answers to (on repeat).</p><p>If Castiel thought he was exhausted earlier, <em> oh. </em>Sweet, summer child.</p><p>The rest of his afternoon had been jam-packed with first presenting his investigative findings to said obnoxious leadership team, and then subsequently defending his recommendations. The pushback on punishing Alastair and Meg seemingly without cause was strong, but Castiel refused to back down. He was grateful that Naomi had his back, that she <em> believed </em>him, that they were in this together.</p><p>Even through all of the blurry, yelling, gray-suited fuss, Castiel thought and worried about Dean constantly. His face swam into Castiel’s mind at inopportune moments, making him worry and fret about how the man was coping when he should have been listening to Zachariah’s endless, self-important tirades. He thought about Dean anyway.</p><p>And as for that question—<em>not well</em>, Castiel assumed, if Dean’s face and his attitude earlier had been any indication (clearly). Castiel wanted nothing more than to make up an excuse to go and find out for sure, but there was no way that was happening. It wasn’t as if he could simply <em> leave </em> an emergency meeting with the Board to go <em> hang out </em>with an inmate who—by everyone’s accounts—was nowhere near whatever went down in the H1 housing block. </p><p>Not to mention, there was still the matter of Cain and his ultimatum. At the very least, thinking about Dean reminded Castiel to deal with that problem while he still could, meeting or no. With time running short, he wound up shooting off a text to Cain that promised Dean’s full cooperation and agreement to his plan without having ever had the opportunity to discuss it with the man himself.</p><p>It was a necessary move (considering the alternative), but one that Castiel desperately hoped he wouldn’t live to regret. There simply wasn’t any other option. He was stuck in the conference from Hell where time seemed to have virtually no meaning, and Cain required a definitive answer.<em> Send it and move on</em>, that was all Castiel could do. </p><p>Once he saw the little “read” notification appear below his words, he did exactly that. He tucked away his phone and refocused on the matter at hand. Specifically, the issue of the Bay’s potentially compromised staff, which Naomi and Zach were still arguing heatedly about across the table from each other.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, Zachariah and his minions were not keen on terminating both a guard <em> and </em> a nurse (especially when the infirmary only employed two full-time) who had been with the company for less than a year. “The training and resources!” Zachariah bellowed, smacking the table with his open palm. “Do you have any <em> idea </em> what onboarding for those departments costs?! I’m sorry, but we are <em> not </em> flushing tens of thousands of dollars away based on some shrink’s gut instinct and a salt-dusting of circumstantial-at-best evidence.” </p><p>Castiel frowned, less offended by the degradation of his role both at the prison and in all of this, and more irritated about how once again, the conversation was revolving around <em> money </em>and not safety.</p><p>“By all accounts thus far, Alastair is a victim as much as the inmate was,” Zachariah argued.</p><p>“The <em> inmate,</em>” Castiel pipes up, doing his best to control his anger and to be patient, “has a name. It’s Alfie, and he is a human being who was in <em> our </em> care. <em> Our </em> responsibility. Alastair <em> knew </em>that Dean was to be kept away from H1 and Crowley. I told him so myself, so you can consider that more than ‘circumstantial’.” He caught Naomi’s eye across the table and registered her warning look in time to soften his tone.</p><p>Castiel took a calming breath before continuing, despite Zachariah’s scowl. “Alastair knew that Dean never should have left MedSeg. I understand that he claims he was following Meg’s orders and was ignorant to the risk, but I can assure you, <em> I </em> impressed it upon him greatly. He <em> knew. </em> These things are connected, they did not happen in isolation. The evidence clearly suggests he is <em> lying, </em> and if he is lying about Dean, it stands to reason he is likely lying about his part in the H1 incident<em>.</em>”</p><p>Castiel thought he sounded both convincing and reasonable, but the board was not so easily swayed. There was silence for a moment, and then everyone seemed to speak at once—all the suits with varying opinions on whether or not termination would result in them paying “outrageous” unemployment costs or even being sued.</p><p>
  <em> Money. Reputation. Risk/benefit analyses. Numbers. </em>
</p><p>“These are human beings,” Castiel protested incredulously, his voice completely lost in the ruckus. He caught Naomi’s eye and she shook her head, closing her eyes and rubbing her temple with two fingers on each side. She was clearly frustrated and equally at a loss as he was.</p><p>“It’s far too tenuous,” Zachariah persisted, when the other Board members simmered down and Castiel continued to push for outright termination as a safety measure. “We’d lose both unemployment challenges in a heartbeat.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate his argument before reaching to grab the sweating glass of whiskey that had appeared in front of him at some point.</p><p>Castiel sunk back into his chair, feeling defeated.</p><p>By then, they’d all been trapped inside the ornate conference room attached to Naomi’s office for the better part of several hours. Everyone was worn-out, frazzled, and looking the part—ties were undone, collars unbuttoned, even Naomi’s usually flawless pressed suit was wrinkled and displaced. Naomi herself was uncharacteristically slumped with her head in her hand, elbow on the table, blinking tiredly across it at Castiel as he silently fumed and wracked his brain for a way to regroup.  </p><p>At some point, they’d sent Meg and Alastair home—at least until a decision could be made—even though privately, Castiel obviously felt they both deserved to be in jail. Or in an interrogation room at the police station, anyway. Unfortunately, there was nothing the police could arrest them <em> for</em>, or Castiel supposed he wouldn’t be in the current mess he was in.</p><p>Much as he hated to admit it, Zachariah wasn’t entirely wrong. Well, he <em> was, </em> but he still had a point. At the end of the day, all they could scrape together for “proof” were Castiel’s inclinations, some circumstantial evidence and heavy suspicion that <em> could </em> theoretically be explained away, and a handful of “witnesses.” Witnesses whose testimony seemingly suggested that a ghost assaulted Alfie, since apparently, no one was even <em> in </em> H1 to do so. In short: they had a nothing burger. </p><p>“I have some—some additional plans in the works,” Castiel finally offered, hating that he was being forced to skate so close to bringing Cain (and Dean) into this. “I just—I need a little time. If you’ll indulge me, I believe that I can get you those witnesses you want. <em> Real </em>witnesses, and proof that the others are lying. I believe—I believe I can get you Alfie.”</p><p>As Zachariah began to shake his head, Castiel rushed on, flipping through the figures in his head that he’d internalized over so many Friday-night drinks with Naomi. “My concern is not solely about this incident—Sir, with all due respect, the Warden and I are terribly close to solving the power imbalance that’s paralyzing the prison for good. All I need is a couple of weeks, and I know I can finish it. Crowley will be out of the picture, and the disloyal employees enabling him will be weeded out. Isn’t—isn’t Crowley’s hold on the prison costing you more monthly than Alastair and Meg are worth?” </p><p>Internally, Castiel hated himself a little for stooping to throw out the money card, but it was very clear that was the only game those assholes played.</p><p>Rightfully, Zachariah narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t reject the proposal outright. Instead, he sipped from his glass and hummed. “That’s quite a lot of leeway you’re asking for, when you haven’t produced any tangible results yet.” </p><p>From her place across the table, Naomi sighed audibly, her hand dropping and palm slapping against the polished wood with obvious vexation. “He’s <em> trying,</em>” she hissed, far less professional and nonplussed than usual, but weren’t they all. “If you haven’t noticed, Zach, we’re the boots on the ground, here. We’re fighting an uphill battle against a crime syndicate with <em> very </em>deep pockets and a web of connections. If you’re rejecting Castiel’s suggestion, I have to assume it’s because you’ve thought of a better one.” </p><p>Settling back into his seat, for the <em> first </em> time that day, Castiel felt something approaching satisfaction and just a <em> little </em> bit of hope. He ducked his head, doing his best to swallow the smile that threatened his lips and to <em> not </em>look over at Naomi with appreciation. When he glanced up, Zachariah was still scowling. The Board President remained silent for a long moment before dropping his glass to the table where it wobbled precariously and left a wet ring.</p><p>“You have <em> one </em> week,” he snapped, getting to his feet in a gesture so familiar that the rest of the Board automatically followed suit. “Seven days to produce airtight evidence including firsthand statements regarding <em> who </em> committed <em> both </em>assaults, how they were orchestrated, and which staff members were involved. In addition, you will have solved the Crowley conundrum as well. I expect that when I return, Crowley will be in permanent protective custody and whatever hold you allowed him to garner over this institution will be broken.” Zachariah picked up his glass again and drained it, clearly doing so to punctuate his declaration. “Or you’re both fired.” </p><p>Castiel smiled widely in vindication, and Naomi looked relieved.</p><p>When all was said and done and the dramatic speeches had come to an end, Zachariah left and the board went with him. Castiel followed Naomi when she gathered her things and relocated over to her office. He sat in his usual chair, sans whiskey, and resented the lack thereof. Actively formulating a plan in his head, Castiel waited, listening in while Naomi called the two employees in question and dropped the hammer. </p><p>Not that he was privy to the other ends of the conversations, but from his secondhand eavesdropping, neither Meg nor Alastair seemed overly concerned. Not about the accusations or the verdict, not about the investigation or the threat to their jobs. It wasn’t a great sign, in Castiel’s opinion, but they also didn’t know his plans.</p><p>As soon as Naomi hung up, her weary eyes met his—stern, but there was more worry and relief there than anything else. Castiel briefly put himself in her shoes—this was a terrible day for a good Warden. Tough as Naomi was, she tried her best, worked hard to run a clean, fair, and well-functioning prison. Even if some of her ideas might have been slightly misguided, they were well-intentioned, and as a leader, she was always both strong and reasonable. This—this <em> violation </em>and the deep roots it carried—Castiel knew it hurt her deeply. Differently than it hurt him, but painful all the same.</p><p>“Tell me you weren’t bullshitting them back there.”</p><p>Folding his hands across his lap, Castiel inhaled and exhaled intentionally, and shook his head ‘no’. “Thank you for backing me,” he said.</p><p>Naomi shrugged, like it was nothing (<em>it wasn’t)</em>. “You’ve earned it.”</p><p>The next part was more difficult, and Castiel hesitated. “I do have a plan. However—”</p><p>Naomi cut him off, practically reading his mind. “You don’t want to tell me.” </p><p>Raising his eyebrows, Castiel leaned forward, intrigued. “Are you going to let me get away with that?” </p><p>He was fairly certain Naomi hadn’t blinked, not since closing her eyes while answering some inane question of Alastair’s regarding benefit time over the phone. Her gaze bore through him, reading his every secret—whether Castiel ever voiced it or not—but her expression didn’t match—mouth quirking up in a smile. “I had a feeling that there was more to that quiet, line-toeing soldier than you let on,” she said, before leaning back in her chair with a yawn. “Yes, I am letting you get away with it. Don’t make me regret that decision. And Castiel—do tell me. When there’s something you’re able to tell.” </p><p>Solemnly, Castiel nodded, appreciative. “I will.” He stood to leave, fruitlessly attempting to smooth the long-past-salvageable creases in his pants and briefly dreaming of the sanctity of his little cottage. What he wouldn’t give for the sweet, hot pressure of the water in his shower and for eight interrupted hours in his wonderful bed. <em> Not </em>that he’d be able to sleep without first confirming that Dean was indeed alright, that he was safe. Without seeing with his own two eyes that Alfie was resting comfortably, as well. That the prison itself was as secure as it could possibly be, considering. </p><p>For that, Castiel knew he’d have to do several things, including chasing Dean down and convincing him to speak. He had no doubt that Dean <em> would </em> give him the real story once they were alone, once he had <em> time </em>to devote to hearing it. On the flip side, Castiel worried that whatever transpired in H1 had broken Dean so irrevocably that nothing Castiel had to offer him in return by way of hope would even matter now. </p><p>It was killing him that there were so many obstacles he still needed to jump and dodge and manage before he even <em> could </em> be free to seek out Dean at all, but such was life. That was his <em> job, </em> and it came first<em>.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Speaking of which— </em>
</p><p>At the door, Castiel turned around to face Naomi, snapping his fingers absently. “Actually—I will require two specific things from you,” he said, waiting for Naomi’s nod to proceed before continuing. “The first is simple—a name added to our approved legal representatives list, and I need you to not ask me for credentials. The second is a room swap. Uh—more than one.” </p><p>With barely a flinch, Naomi slid the scribbled-on legal pad she carried everywhere across her wide desk in Castiel’s direction before tossing a pen on top. “Even though that was <em> three </em>things, by my count,” she said, “What the hell. In for a penny—” </p><p>“I’ll take care of it,” Castiel promised her, and he meant it, all of it. No more alarm-clock mistakes, it was time to close <em> all </em>the damn loopholes. He gave his boss the specifics he was looking for and left, intent on starting the process of restitution immediately.</p><p>Which is why it’s now well into the evening and Castiel is currently sitting beside Alfie’s bed in MedSeg instead of dragging Dean bodily into his office to comfort him.</p><p><em> First thing’s first. </em> </p><p>He glances over, and Alfie’s gaze is still fixed determinedly on the ceiling. Castiel leans back further in his chair, enough to see out the door and diagonally across the way into the infirmary. Alfie’s been housed in the second medical bay, the one next to the room Dean occupied yesterday, just slightly further down the hall.</p><p><em> Yesterday. Feels like weeks ago, </em>Castiel thinks.</p><p>Tessa is completely occupied, paying them exactly zero attention. Alfie came back from the hospital only a few hours after being taken to the emergency room, diagnosed with a variety of injuries but nothing (physically) that won’t heal. A concussion, a cut over his right eye that required stitches. A fairly serious split lip that was glued. One cracked rib and several more bruised on both sides. A plethora of scrapes, bruises, strains and sprains, but no internal damage or bleeding, nothing that required surgery or extreme treatment or even an overnight stay. </p><p>He <em> is </em>taking prescribed narcotics—which is a rarity in prison—but apparently, the emergency room doctor went out on a limb due to the circumstances. Castiel’s glad—Alfie should have as much pain relief as he can stand, and if anyone deserves the mind-numbing effects an opiate can provide, it’s him. He’s not a medical doctor himself, but Castiel assumes the pain relief is specifically related to the injuries Alfie sustained to his rectum—that section is the most detailed on the hospital’s relay report, with talk of “internal stitches” and several creams that he’ll have to use for the indeterminate future. </p><p>In truth, it’s quite difficult for Castiel to resist crossing his legs and wincing just thinking about it, but that wouldn’t do Alfie any good. <em> Alfie </em> is the one suffering. He refuses to talk about it though, and Castiel has <em> tried. </em> That’s fine—in his own time, but he’ll stay in MedSeg until he at <em> least </em>makes an attempt.</p><p>Not taking any chances with that, Castiel spoke to their idiot Medical Director personally this time. Confirming that Alfie’s stay in MedSeg is to continue until <em> both </em> of them <em> and </em>Naomi sign off on his release was top priority, and as such, he’s also double-checked Tessa’s documentation and all the notes on Alfie’s inmate file himself. </p><p>Presumably, Dean <em> will </em> actually get on board with Cain’s plan post-haste, and then Cain will make good on his promise. That will render Crowley’s ability to pull strings the way he did to create this mess defunct almost immediately. That’s the <em> hope, </em> but Castiel won’t be leaving <em> anything </em>in this hellhole to chance ever again. Especially when he can’t be one hundred percent certain there aren’t additional dirty guards or temporary agency nurses crammed into Crowley’s pocket.</p><p>Castiel thinks about all of those things as he observes Tessa’s movements. Throughout his visit to MedSeg, she’s been in and out unpredictably, and what he has to say next is not something that needs to be overheard. Although, Castiel does suspect that Tessa is trustworthy—if she wasn’t, Meg wouldn’t have had to work so hard to manipulate the situation and take her out of the picture.</p><p><em> One thing at a time, </em>Castiel reminds himself, bringing his thoughts back to the present and Alfie.</p><p>Once he’s sure that Tessa is indeed well-occupied, he drops the legs of his chair and scoots close enough to Alfie’s cot that his knees are touching the edge. “Alfie,” he says quietly, doing his best to suffuse kindness and understanding into his voice. “I understand that you’re not ready to speak to me, nor do you intend to snitch, so I need to tell you something.” He pauses, but Alfie doesn’t so much as move a facial muscle.</p><p>“I think—I <em>believe </em>you deserve to know that there are people in here who are on your side.” That gets a hard swallow from the man in the bed, but nothing else. Castiel continues. “I already know who did this.” Alfie stiffens visibly, and Castiel inwardly chastises himself, <em>idiot. </em>He knows better, and rushes to correct his mistake. “No—I’m not—there are people working to dethrone Crowley, to disabuse him of his power from its source. I don’t need you to confirm anything I’ve said, but I do need your word of a promise.”</p><p>Castiel pauses again, and he can <em> see </em>the shift in Alfie’s interest, the way his eyes have sharpened and his body has gone tense. </p><p>“When the time comes, if the Knights can guarantee your safety from Crowley, will you help us?” </p><p>Alfie’s jaw ticks and a single tear fights its way out from the corner of his eye, tracking down slowly his temple to his ear. </p><p>“Once it’s safe for you to do so, I would need a statement naming Crowley as the person responsible for your assault. You will be protected by the prison; no one but the Warden and I will know that it was you who spoke about it. The minute we have your statement, Crowley will go into protection permanently. If there are charges and a trial, I’ll ensure that your identity is kept secret. That’s easy, prosecutors do it all the time. Crowley will never know whether it’s you or one of his own men diming him out…” Castiel trails off and then drops the bomb. “Or Dean.” </p><p>Alfie’s eyes dart to his own, narrowed and suspicious as this piece of knowledge that Castiel <em> shouldn’t </em> know but somehow <em> does </em> sinks in. Castiel doesn’t envy him, having to decide ont the spot whether a member of the brass is someone he can trust, especially after all he’s been through. “Two things, yes?” Castiel continues calmly. “Your promise of an official statement regarding what happened today so that we can move Crowley permanently out of General, and your word that if Dean makes a play for Top Dog, you’ll back him.”</p><p>When Alfie hears the second condition, his eyes go wide. Castiel senses that perhaps he’s pushed too far, given up too much, too fast. Worried, he opens his mouth to backtrack and try for some damage control, but before he can, Alfie speaks.</p><p>His voice is low and rough, scratchy and pained. He sounds at once terrified, furious, and determined as hell, and Castiel finds himself overcome with a new level of respect for the brave young man.</p><p>“I’m <em> fucking </em>in,” Alfie says, fire returning to his eyes. The sight actually threatens to choke Castiel up a little, but he swallows his own emotions—this is not about him. “Dean is a good man. He didn’t deserve—I’m in,” Alfie repeats, shaking his head slightly. “All the way.” </p><p>***</p><p>H2 is minutes from being locked down for the night when Castiel finally arrives outside the gate to the unit. That’s no issue for him—his badge is an access card that opens any and every door in the prison. Well, save for Naomi’s office. Presumably—not that he’s checked.</p><p>Theoretically, he could just meet with Dean inside of his cell, but that’s undesirable to Castiel for many reasons, not the least of which includes prying eyes and ears. He’d much prefer to take Dean down to his office and return him to H2 when they’re finished, even if it does raise some eyebrows with the other prisoners. It’s necessary, at this point.</p><p>If their plan plays out the way Cain intends, then very soon, Dean will be the one setting the tone for the other inmates. Once that’s the case, his meeting with administration (even at odd hours) regarding prison issues will be a non-starter, as that’s a completely normal thing for a Top Dog to do. But Castiel is getting ahead of himself—Dean isn’t Top Dog yet, appearances do matter, and they’re all still very much in danger. </p><p>H2 is quiet when he steps inside. All of the inmates are inside their assigned cells, relaxing or sleeping. They must have just finished count, with the guard assigned to first rounds having moved upstairs to continue with the other blocks. Castiel unclips his radio from his belt and lifts it to his mouth. “Sierra Four to Sierra Three,” he says, waiting for the Sergeant on duty to acknowledge and knowing that the other officers around the complex are listening. </p><p>“Go for Sierra Three, Sierra Four.”</p><p>“I’ll be escorting Inmate 05152008 to my office momentarily for an interview regarding the events of last night and this morning,” Castiel relays. That’s completely expected and should take care of any pesky questions from either the staff or Dean’s nosy bunkmates. It’s also not entirely untrue.</p><p>The radio crackles. “Sierra Three copy,” comes the reply. “Winchester out of H2, going to admin with Sierra Four. Uh—just holler if you need someone to bring him back when you’re done.” </p><p>“Sierra Four—copy.” The frequency goes silent and Castiel clips his radio back onto his belt, satisfied. He makes his way over to Dean’s cell, knocking softly before cracking the closed door and calling inside without opening it. “Dean? Dean, are you awake? It’s Ca—Doctor Novak.” The last second adjustment probably isn’t imperative—the prisoners are all welcome to call him Castiel—but it’s likely best not to appear overly familiar with Dean right now. <em> God, </em>all of this second-guessing and paranoid worrying is enough to make Castiel dizzy, he can only imagine how poorly Dean must be coping.</p><p>That concern translates rapidly and harshly to reality when Dean doesn’t answer, so Castiel cautiously opens the door. “Dean?” </p><p>There’s a noncommittal grunt from somewhere inside the darkened room, and as Castiel peers blinking into the depths, he notices several things right away. First, Dean is nothing but an unmoving lump under the blanket spread over his cot. Second, there’s another blanket tucked across the metal curtain rod that’s bolted high on the wall in place of the usual flimsy, velcro-closure curtains. Those are in a pile beneath the window. </p><p>The makeshift blackout curtains’ presence turns the tiny space almost completely black, which sends a chill down Castiel’s spine. Seemingly innocuous by nature, perhaps, but Castiel <em> knows </em>Dean, knows there’s nothing he cares about more in this place than maintaining his few tenuous links to the outside world. That window is one of them. Needless to say, closing it off is not a positive sign.</p><p>The third thing Castiel observes is that Dean’s cell is messy—clothes and snack wrappers are strewn everywhere, and Dean’s favorite book is abandoned carelessly in the corner. Its beloved pages are bent and wrinkled where it appears the book landed haphazardly, likely tossed. Also not encouraging—in Castiel’s experience, Dean is tidy, he’s responsible, and he’s particular about maintaining both his meager possessions and his space.</p><p><em> Oh, Dean. </em> </p><p>Castiel can’t help it—he fights to remain professional, but his chest aches. Dean doesn’t deserve this pain, doesn’t deserve whatever happened to him alongside Alfie. Castiel has his suspicions—considering that Dean doesn’t appear to be physically injured, it seems likely that Crowley made him an unwilling accomplice. Castiel knows men like their resident would-be mob boss, and unfortunately, the co-conspirator theory is easily the most probable scenario. </p><p>At this point, he can only hope that Dean wasn’t forced to actually participate. </p><p>After everything he’s been through—with how <em> caring </em>and selfless Dean is naturally, piled on top of how fragile his mental state can be at times—Castiel isn’t entirely certain even Dean could make his way back from that.</p><p>But Castiel will be damned if he won’t pull out all the stops to drag him, if that’s what it comes to. This is <em> his </em>fault, too.</p><p>Internally, he chastizes his runaway brain for taking off on him again, refocusing swiftly on the problem at hand. Dean’s cell has a light switch, so Castiel flips it to turn on the overhead lamp. It flickers to life and Dean growls, yanking the edge of the blanket more fully over his head.</p><p>“<em>Dean,</em>” Castiel repeats, more insistently this time. Stepping more fully into the cell, he reaches out to tug at the cover wedged firmly under Dean’s curled-up feet. “I need to speak with you in my office. This is not a request.”</p><p>From beneath the blanket, a tired, deadpan voice mumbles, “You gonna make me, Cas? Gonna have to get in line.” </p><p>Castiel may not be the most socially apt person on the planet, but he <em> does </em>know bait when he sees it. “Fine,” he mutters, giving the blanket one good pull, exposing Dean completely. Clad in prison-issued sweats, socks, and a t-shirt that all look to have seen better days, Dean cracks one eye open and glares at Castiel through it. </p><p>“Let’s <em>go,</em>” Castiel reiterates impatiently, but Dean doesn’t move. Throwing up his hands, Castiel plants them on his hips, knowing that Dean is watching carefully, testing him. “I know what you’re doing, Dean, and I am not going to touch you,” he says with a small shrug, before lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. “I am <em> also </em>not going to stand here and kiss your ass about how undeserving you are to be in this mess, though it is certainly how I feel. I know that you’re angry and miserable, but I am asking you not to take it out on me. Lest you forget, I’m the one person in here you can be sure is on your side.” </p><p>A shadow flickers in Castiel’s peripheral vision—someone moving about the housing block, undoubtedly listening. If Dean won’t budge, he’ll have to give up. Outside the cell door, the iron gate to H2 beeps and slides closed, guards in the hallway calling last-check confirmations back and forth, and then Castiel is locked inside.</p><p>It <em> shouldn’t </em> feel like a big deal since he has his badge and is <em> not </em> an inmate, but all this questionable involvement with Cain has him viewing various circumstances from a slightly different perspective. If he fails, if they’re <em> caught, </em>if something goes wrong—perhaps Castiel will be stuck protecting Dean from the wrong side of the bars. </p><p>Another grunt from Dean steals his distracted train of thought back to reality. Relief floods Castiel when he sees the man swinging his feet over the side of the bed and stuffing them haphazardly into his shower slides. </p><p>“Let’s roll,” Dean grumbles, like it’s no big deal, like <em> Castiel </em>is the one holding up their progress. Getting attitude from Dean is less frustrating and more comforting, as it suggests that the fiery, unbroken man he’s come to know and care deeply for is still in there. Dean doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes as he slips on his sweatshirt, though, zipping the front and pulling the hood up over his head as far as it will go. </p><p>When the two of them step out of Dean’s cell and into the main living area, the bars from the gate are casting ominous shadows across the floor and the dining table. The other cell doors are all closed and the block is empty and silent—the whole hall is—quieter than Castiel’s ever known any section of the prison to be. Something is in the air right now, and Castiel doesn’t like it one bit.</p><p>Suppressing a shiver, he reaches behind him on instinct, almost taking Dean’s hand but catching himself just in time. He leaves his outstretched fingers there anyway—a reassurance, if Dean wants it—before walking over to the gate and reaching through to badge it open. As it beeps and begins to slide, Castiel strains to see down the hall, catching sight of only one guard halfway to H1. </p><p>The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he’s almost shocked when nothing happens and he and Dean are able to step through the gate and close it again. The air around them feels tense and deprived of oxygen, but it all must be in Castiel’s head because everything remains quiet and still. </p><p>The walk to Castiel’s office is equally silent. Virtually the only noises to be heard are the clicking of Castiel’s dress shoes and the slap of Dean’s sandals against the tile, both sounds echoing in the cavernous halls. Reaching the admin area has Castiel breathing a sigh of relief for reasons he can’t quite articulate. The lights are slightly brighter here, warmer. And the sound of an overworked Tessa on triple-time clacking away at her computer’s keyboard feels oddly soothing as they pass. </p><p>Castiel unlocks his door with his badge and ushers Dean inside, closing and locking it behind them. Suddenly, his little work space seems more like a sanctuary, a fortress against an unforgiving world where no one and nothing feels trustworthy or safe. The blinds are still drawn to the interior hall, but the windows to the outside world glow with the sickly yellow spotlights that permanently illuminate the yard.</p><p>Beyond the concrete and the fencing, the ocean drifts dark and moody, reflecting some of the prison light off of its glassy service, but mostly shimmering with the white, unearthly glow of the moon. The waves are as calm and quiet as the first floor of H-block felt to Castiel this evening—almost an unnatural kind of stillness that naturally begs the question, <em> what comes next?  </em></p><p>Castiel supposes that answer depends on Dean, a thought that quickly rips his gaze away from the water and back to the man himself. Dean’s in his usual spot on the couch (if slumped a bit more heavily into the cushions) and his face is just...<em> devastated. </em>He looks so sad, so lost, so hopeless that it’s all Castiel can do not to scoop him up and refuse to let go. Considering the circumstances, that would likely be worse than inappropriate, it would be painfully unwanted and possibly triggering. </p><p>Still, Castiel can’t help how he feels or the urge to provide comfort to this man who—against all odds—has somehow become intrinsically important to him. He admires Dean and how hard he works, how much he cares, how he never fails to put others first. He enjoys Dean’s company, the way he never fails to make Castiel laugh. It seems that day by day (especially with the “extra-curricular” effort he’s engaged in to secure Dean’s safety), it’s becoming increasingly difficult to deny that his feelings are anything but detached.</p><p>It doesn’t matter, though, because while his emotions may have gone rogue, Castiel himself has not. <em> He </em> is still a consummate professional, no matter what his heart wants. Dean is his patient and a relationship with him is the <em> one </em>thing Castiel can never, ever have.</p><p>He moves to sit down in his usual chair, but at the last second thinks better of it. It’s not crossing any proverbial lines to simply <em> sit </em> next to Dean, to be there to <em> offer (professional) </em>physical comfort if Dean wants it. </p><p><em> In fact, </em> Castiel reasons, <em> that’s only the responsible, empathetic thing to do. Professionally speaking. </em>He lowers himself onto the cushion to Dean’s right—a solid two feet of space in between them—and turns his body so that it’s open towards Dean. </p><p>“Cain is going to help us,” he says softly, sensing that Dean really needs a win before he’s going to be willing to discuss anything of import. “He’s already secured Sam, although you’ll have to forgive me, I can’t elaborate on what that means because I don’t know. However, if you agree to his terms, you can ask the man himself, because you’ll be meeting with him tomorrow.” </p><p>Castiel’s admission doesn’t garner <em> quite </em>the response he’d hoped for, but some of the strain holding the line of Dean’s upper body taut relaxes. The change is nearly incremental, Dean still staring down at his restless hands in his lap, but Castiel notices. Carefully, he reaches out, resting a palm on Dean’s shoulder, half-expecting a flinch.</p><p>What he <em> doesn’t </em>anticipate is the low moan Dean releases, the way he sinks back into the cushions of the couch and drops his head onto Castiel’s hand. Dean’s own hand comes flying up, but then his fingers are tentative as their pads touch Castiel’s wrist, careful but seeking. It nearly breaks Castiel in two, but somehow, he manages not to overstep, squeezing reassuringly instead of dragging Dean bodily into his arms the way he wants.</p><p>Sucking in a ragged breath, Dean blows it out and shakes his head, shifting back to a more neutral sitting position. Both of his hands drop next to his hips and he sighs, glassy eyes focused on the ceiling. </p><p>Castiel takes his own hand back, but he leans towards Dean slightly, propping his elbow on the back of the couch. Time to shift tack. “What do you want, Dean?” he asks, doing his best to project warmth and acceptance into his tone. “Paint me a picture.” </p><p>Dean’s silent for a moment before sniffing and dragging a sleeve across his face. “What do I <em> want?” </em>During the natural pause that follows, Castiel nods but doesn’t elaborate. Let Dean make of that what he will—this is for him. He doesn’t disappoint—Dean never does. When he speaks again, it’s with surprising conviction and a clear, furious gaze. “What do I want, Cas? I want to walk out of these gates, of this place, and everyone in it is just a smoking pile of ashes. I wanna be picked up by a hot guy, in a hot car, and driven off into the sunset. How’s that for a picture?”</p><p>“Says it all.”</p><p>Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes, the brief moment of bravado breaking and disintegrating like a parody of the ashes he was describing. “Yeah, well, it’s bullshit. Only way I’m leaving this place is in a coffin.” </p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says gravely, scooting a bit closer on the couch. “I know that any scrap of faith you might have had must be gone. After what happened, I can’t fault you for that. Not one bit.”</p><p>“Can’t or won’t?” </p><p>The barest flicker of a smile chases the edge of Dean’s mouth and something breaks open in Castiel’s chest. The <em> steel </em>Dean must have flowing in his veins to retain the ability to joke and tease—it’s difficult to comprehend. Not to mention the way that Dean seems to know Castiel puts him on a pedestal—it’s perhaps equally as unprofessional as crossing a physical line, but for whatever reason, Castiel barely cares. He’s so deep in this now, he’s not sure it would matter if he did.</p><p>“You have me there,” he admits. “But perhaps you could hear me out anyway, before you sentence yourself to death.” Much as he wants Dean to choose hope for himself, when Dean doesn’t reply, Castiel opts to play the card he knows <em> will </em> work. Internally, though, he vows to make it his life’s mission that <em> one day, </em> Dean will wake up knowing his worth. One day, he’ll live and fight for <em> himself. </em>For his own happiness, or at least for a reason other than what he feels he owes his brother. He’ll get there, but first thing’s first.</p><p>“Cain is protecting Sam—for now. He has conditions, though, non-negotiable stipulations that involve you.” Unsurprisingly, Dean stiffens, even though Castiel puts a hand on his arm, trying to be heartening. “Don’t panic, please. You must know that I would never bring you a list of demands I felt were unfair or even not worth their innate risks.” </p><p>Dean relaxes slightly, but he still looks wary, eyes narrowed as he watches Castiel out of their corners. “Lay it on me,” he says gruffly.</p><p>As Castiel explains Cain’s plan (what he knows of it), to his relief, Dean turns less and less dejected and increasingly alert. He’s unquestionably interested—listening attentively and with an air of surprise, like he can’t believe the turn of events. To be fair, he’s been through enough that the suspicion is certainly understandable, if not warranted. </p><p>“So,” Dean says slowly, when Castiel’s finished. “All he wants is for me to be Top Dog while I’m in here? <em> And </em>he’s gonna help get me out?” </p><p>“That’s my understanding of it,” Castiel says with a nod. “He’s very unhappy with Crowley.”</p><p>“And—and you trust him? Cas, this ain’t—look, I know this dude is a friend of yours—”</p><p>“A former patient,” Castiel corrects, and Dean makes a face, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms across his chest. “Alright,” Castiel relents. “Yes, he’s a friend.”</p><p>“Yeah, we’ve been over this before,” Dean says, eyes twinkling. “Anyway, this ain’t how the Knights work. There’s nothing for free with them, even with the leaders who aren’t straight-up bags of dicks like Crowley. You feel me? What’s he getting out of this?”</p><p>“Honestly,” Castiel replies, scratching his chin and furrowing his brow. “I think he’s angry about what’s happened to the legacy he created. Cain’s feelings about the Knights were <em> always </em>both complex and nuanced, at best. His decision to step back was not one that he made lightly, and in truth, I don’t think his return has much to do with you, at all. Even back then, I never considered it outside the realm of possibility.”</p><p>Dean’s stony face softens slightly. “That’s probably the most convincing argument you could have given me,” he says. “Never good when a mob boss <em> sees </em>you, even as a person. Always better to be a means to an end—those are the guys that maybe get out alive. Alright, one thing—did he say that he wants me to sign anything?”</p><p>“No,” Castiel replies honestly, shaking his head. “I told him under no uncertain terms that you wouldn’t agree to be bound to the Knights after your release, and he agreed.” </p><p>Dean’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open slightly. “You did?”</p><p>Castiel frowns. “Of course, Dean.”</p><p>There’s a pregnant, charged moment firing between them that Castiel isn’t entirely sure what to do with or what it means. It breaks when Dean looks down and nods, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks, Cas.” </p><p>Clearing his throat, Castiel opts to move things along. “You’ll need a loyal crew,” he warns. “To challenge Crowley. The fight may be one-on-one and you’ll best him easily, but he does have loyalists who won’t yet know that his power has been stripped. That’s something <em> you </em>will tell them, after you win, and they’ll be able to easily verify with a phone call. Going in, though, and going forward, you’ll need your own team. As a show of power, if nothing else, something to demonstrate to the majority of the prison who dislike Crowley that it’s safe to defect. Any thoughts?”</p><p>Dean chews his lip. “Benny,” he says quickly. “Benny for my second. Max, I think. Maybe Jesse and Cesar, over in C-block. They’ve always—” Dean breaks off to clear his throat. “They’re cool.”</p><p>“Alfie,” Castiel suggests, and Dean’s face crumples. His hand comes up to cover his eyes and his shoulders shake as wet streaks become visible at the bottom of his cheeks. “Oh, Dean.” Castiel rushes to soothe him, shifting closer still and placing a comforting hand on Dean’s back. “Dean, he doesn’t blame you. I was with him all evening—he wants to be a part of this and he deserves that chance.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Dean breathes, the word broken and half-stuck in his throat. “I let them—Cas, I stood there and <em> let </em>them—”</p><p>“You didn’t,” Castiel says firmly. “And you <em> know </em> that. The only people responsible for what happened to Alfie are Crowley and the other members of his gang. You and Alfie are both victims of his violence and you <em> know </em> that, Dean. You just have to stop shouldering the weight of the world and <em> believe </em>that not everything bad that happens is somehow your fault.” </p><p>Naturally, Dean doesn’t answer, but he does remove his hand and wipe his face, heaving in a few haggard breaths until he’s back in control of himself. </p><p><em> “Crowley </em> is responsible for Crowley,” Castiel reiterates. “But you’re right to be angry, to be hurt, to be terrified. You want vengeance, you want to take Crowley down and teach him a permanent lesson? <em> Use </em> your sadness, your anger, the unfair way you’ve been made a part of their depravity. <em> Use </em>it, and let Alfie do the same. He deserves that much.”</p><p>“Hell yeah, he does,” Dean says immediately. “You sure he’s not gonna take the first opportunity to bump <em> me </em>off after we handle Crowley? I mean, I might, in his place.”</p><p>Castiel shrugs. “I can’t speak for him, but you should speak <em> to </em>him. I can arrange that tomorrow, if you like. Then you can decide for yourself.” </p><p>Dean nods silently, sucking in another rough breath. “Okay.”</p><p>“After you meet with Cain, I imagine things will move quickly. Cain is not a man to waste time on inaction. I’m going to arrange some things on the administrative end, as well, to help the process along. Not that you can tell anyone or that she’ll ever admit it, but Naomi <em> is </em> on your side. You and I will have whatever resources we need to orchestrate a showdown. And then—as soon as you <em> are </em>Top Dog—Benny, Max, Jesse, Cesar, and Alfie will all be moved into H2. Musical cells.”</p><p>“Alfie ready to leave Medical?” </p><p>“Alfie is safer with you than in Medical,” Castiel replies. “But to answer your question, physically? I believe so. Emotionally, I think that particular healing process begins with empowerment, the same way yours does.”</p><p>Dean nods, a little reluctantly. He looks overwhelmed. </p><p>“I know this has been—” Castiel hesitates, unable to find the proper word and ultimately forging ahead without it. “But there’s one more thing. Once you’re Top Dog, you’ll need to provide official statements regarding Meg and Alastair. The Board isn’t willing to fire them without firsthand testimony. I realize this could be considered snitching, but it’s the only way to assure they’ll be terminated.”</p><p>Dean raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “If I’m Top Dog, then I make the rules, right? Maybe it’s as simple as saying it don’t count as snitching if it gets a guard in trouble. Most inmates I know would agree to that. They’d think it was hilarious.” </p><p>“You’d know best in that department.”</p><p>“So—Cain will be here tomorrow? We talk and then—that’s it? Game on?”</p><p>“Game on,” Castiel replies seriously. He glances around, the dim light making his office feel warm and cozy, and truly resents what he has to say next. “You should get some sleep. I’ll walk you back.”</p><p>“You can call for a guard, if you want,” Dean says quietly. “Pretty sure Alastair’s the only dirty one.” Something dark passes across his face that Castiel desperately wants to pry into, but he senses Dean is at his limit for today. </p><p>“Good to know,” Castiel replies as he stands. “But I want to walk you back. Call me your guardian angel.” He steps towards the door but stops when he feels a gentle touch to his bicep. Turning, Castiel finds Dean standing <em> right </em> behind him, looking for all the world <em> lost, </em>but soft and grateful at the same time.</p><p>“Cas,” he says, clearly unsure and seemingly at a loss for words. His mouth opens and closes a few times, hand still resting on Castiel’s arm. </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Can—Can I just—” His eyes are pleading, hopeful and desperate, and Castiel finally realizes what he’s asking for. </p><p>“A hug?” Castiel asks, and Dean nods, curt and just once, but so obviously relieved.</p><p>No one needs to ask him twice—Castiel sweeps forward, wrapping both arms around Dean’s shoulders and pulling him in close. Dean goes with a broken little huff, practically melting with what Castiel can only imagine is the first kind touch he’s had in months, perhaps much longer. He pointedly doesn’t think about how so many people regularly touch Dean with intention while having absolutely <em> zero </em>care for the man himself.</p><p>Dean needs this—Castiel can feel it in the way he <em> doesn’t </em> hug back, the way his body fights to relax in Castiel’s arms. Proper or not, nothing in the world could pry him away now. Dean moans and leans in and Castiel holds him, rocking their bodies gently from side to side. He’s at once grateful for the opportunity and thankful that Dean <em> asked, </em>that he’s willing to accept some tiny comfort for himself, even after everything that’s happened and all the self-flagellating he does.</p><p>It gives Castiel hope for all of them.</p><p>After a long minute, Dean’s arms wrap tentatively around his back, his forehead and nose pressing into Castiel’s shoulder with more abandon than Castiel expected, considering. “It’s alright, Dean,” he reassures him softly, which only makes Dean clutch at him tighter. “We’re going to get through this. You’re not alone, not anymore. No matter what happens, I’ll be there. I’ll go with you.”</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's that hug I promised. :-P</p><p>Tidbit: Alastair's "emotional" quote is from "On the Head of a Pin," but in the show, he says it to Dean.</p><p>Also, there is something small in this chapter that is very distant foreshadowing! Can you guess what it is?</p><p>Next time: Old and new friends meet, a plot to dethrone the King, Dean changes The Rules, and adrenaline makes everyone do crazy things.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>Hot guy. Hot car. Ashes. Sunset.</i><br/>In that moment, Dean’s vision of the future feels more real than it ever has before.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Pretty sure this is the moment we've all been waiting for...One of them, anyway.</p><p>Chapter Warnings (MAJOR MAJOR SPOILERS READ AT YOUR OWN RISK):<br/>*<br/>*<br/>*<br/>*<br/>—&gt;Cain discusses his past, implied cult-brainwashing of Abel, killing his brother (vague, not graphic) and creating the Knights.<br/>—&gt;Poisoned food, no one actually eats it.<br/>—&gt;Graphic violence—prison fight between Crowley and Dean, Crowley uses a knife. Related injuries, blood. Dean has the opportunity to and considers killing him, he does not.<br/>—&gt;In their excitement over Dean’s win, Dean and Cas kiss. Dean initiates, but he is still a prisoner, so this could be seen as institutional assault. Cas knows this, they will discuss it in the future, but this is where we begin to walk the line with their relationship.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Dean stays up thinking and staring at the ceiling long after Castiel returns him to H2. Even with all the other shit swirling around his head, he’d be a liar if he claimed <em> none </em> of those restless wonderings involved the regretful, caring expression on the guy’s face as Dean turned away. He’ll blame the lack of sleep and all of the heavy expectations hanging over his head for the way his body decides that once he finally <em> does </em>go unconscious, he’s damn well staying there.</p><p>The beep and slide of H2’s gate opening up in the morning doesn’t rouse Dean, which is a first. Having to watch his back since the day he arrived at the Bay, he’s practically Pavlovian to the sound. And yet, Dean manages to sleep through both it <em> and </em> the PA calling the various blocks to breakfast. He only snorts himself (gracelessly) awake when the familiar crackle returns, ordering everyone to report to their assigned work stations. </p><p>“Shit,” Dean mumbles, rolling clumsily off of his cot. He blinks blearily, stumbling as he strips off yesterday’s clothing as quickly as possible. He’s only half-awake, but even still, he can recognize the sound of people gathered in H2’s living area, arguing. As Dean splashes some cold water onto his face and brushes his teeth, Gordon’s miserable voice rises above the rest, clearly irritated about whatever they’re discussing. Dean just hopes that whatever it is has nothing to do with him. </p><p>
  <em> It’s too goddamn early for this shit. </em>
</p><p>Ignoring the voices for now, Dean sniffs his armpit and shrugs—not tragic. No time for a shower anyway, so some deodorant and a fresh set of clothing will have to cut it. It’s not like Dean has anybody to impress. </p><p>For absolutely no reason at all (because he’s the only asshole even <em> in </em>the room), he flushes when his own train of thought is undercut by the memory of Cas’ smiling face.</p><p>
  <em> Not even him?  </em>
</p><p>That’s what his brain supplies, because his brain is an asshole, and Dean doesn’t claim it. As if he doesn’t have enough going on, enough to worry about it and process and <em> prepare for</em>, his brain wants to fantasize about <em> Cas? Now? </em> Damn it, Dean’s gotta do a thousand more important things. Mostly, he has to find Benny and make sure he didn’t go out on a limb that’s gonna snap just as soon as he puts a little pressure on it by including him in their plans.</p><p><em> Fuck. </em>Hell of a day to sleep in.</p><p>Dean pulls underwear and clean scrubs from one of the cubbies housing his meager choices in attire, pulling on the pants, socks, and sneakers, but hesitating when it comes to the shirt. After an extra second of consideration, he folds the orange scrub top neatly and replaces it, exchanging the article of clothing for a white tee instead. Scrubs let him blend into the crowd, but wearing <em> just </em> the tight white tee will make a <em> statement</em>. It’s the reason Dean wore it that first day to Cas’ office (but for very different underlying reasons).</p><p>Dean considers his options for a moment, and then tugs it on. </p><p>He steps out into the living area just in time to see Donna, Dean’s favorite guard, throwing up her hands in frustration. “That’s enough there, Gordo,” she says firmly, voice brooking no argument. “We weren’t asking your permission.” Dean doesn’t know what the hell’s going on, but the way steam practically hisses out of Gordon’s ears at the—knowing Donna, likely accidental shortening of his name—is pretty satisfying. Maybe even worth missing breakfast to see. </p><p>“I just don’t understand why—”</p><p>“You don’t have to understand,” a familiar voice chimes in. Caught off guard, Dean has to all but bite his lip bloody in order to hide the smile that wants to creep across his face at the sight of <em> Cas </em> emerging from Gordon’s cell. He’s carrying a large box of what appears to be Gordon’s belongings, and he steps forward to set it down on the table. That puts him facing Dean with his back to Donna, Gordon, and—<em>wait—Benny? Benny’s here? </em></p><p>Knowing they can’t see his face, Cas winks at Dean (badly, but it’s a pretty cute attempt) before turning around and continuing to address Gordon. “All you have to do is collect your things and follow Donna upstairs to your new bunk in H3. This isn’t up for discussion, but you’re welcome to request a meeting with the Warden later, if you like. I’m sure she’ll clear her schedule immediately once she hears about how unhappy you are with your accommodations here in <em> prison</em>.” </p><p>Scowling, Gordon steps unflinchingly into Castiel’s space. His boldness makes Dean bristle, unconsciously moving closer to the two in case he needs to intervene. “I <em> pay </em>my way here,” Gordon complains, tapping his index finger angrily against his chest before casually gesturing towards Dean. “Not like some of these freeloading street scum. You think that doesn’t give me pull?”</p><p>To his credit, Castiel doesn't flinch, doesn’t move a single muscle in response. He acts completely unbothered, stepping to the side with a small smile that Dean knows Gordon must want to slap right off of his face. “I wouldn’t know,” Cas replies calmly, though there’s a smug note of frost in his voice. “As I said, that’s something you’ll need to discuss with the Warden. In the meantime, if you would be so kind?” </p><p>Gordon works his jaw and doesn’t budge, so Castiel shrugs. “If you’d prefer a stint in AdSeg—”</p><p>“You’ll regret this,” Gordon near-spits, before swiping his box from the table and storming out of the unit. Mere seconds later, he’s out of sight. He nearly sideswipes Donna on his way through the gate, but she just rolls her eyes and clicks her teeth before following, eternally patient in a way Dean knows he could <em> never </em>be with all this bullshit.</p><p>“Huh,” Dean remarks, shivering his whole body like he’s shaking some nasty feeling off. His reaction breaks the tension in the room. Both of the men remaining turn to greet him with obvious appreciation and even a somewhat unfamiliar note of joy coloring their faces.</p><p>“Well,” Benny says jovially, smiling widely in a way that fills Dean with nearly as much relief as seeing Cas himself. “Hey there, bunkie. Or should I say, future Top Dog.” </p><p>The smile immediately drops off of Dean’s face as he glances around furtively, checking cells for any rogue inmates that might be listening. “Dude, shut the f—”</p><p>“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel chimes in. He appears out of nowhere at Dean’s side, one warm hand resting on his shoulder. “I cleared the unit prior to bringing Gordon in. I suspected he might—well, react precisely how he did.” </p><p>Dean exhales, but his attention is caught by the empty cell directly next to his—empty as in, <em> bare. </em> He’s <em>sure </em>that it was occupied the night prior. Some guy that never bothered Dean but also had <em> no </em> problem showing Crowley’s goons to his cell and ignoring any cries of pain he might subsequently make. An asshole<em>, </em>but then again, most of the dudes here are. “Where’s—uh, what’s his face?”</p><p>“Cleared out for Alfie,” Castiel explains, squeezing Dean’s shoulder one more time before letting go. Dean’s instincts tell him to lean into the warmth, to chase it, but somehow, he manages to not make a fool of himself. Especially with Benny still standing there, one eyebrow raised as his gaze flits between the two of them. Cas keeps talking, oblivious. “The rest of the room changes will come later. These two shouldn’t raise suspicion—no one expected Alfie to return to H1, and Benny has agreed to claim that he requested his transfer. Personality conflict, paper trail and all.” </p><p>“Well, make yourself at home,” Dean says, somewhat-groggy brain still working to fully catch up. Just like that, the place he sleeps is about ten times safer. Just like that, Alfie’s no longer at such high-risk. A wave of emotion washes over him and Dean has to look away for a second, swallowing around the lump in his throat and blinking back stinging tears.</p><p>He realizes something else, too, if a bit delayed—Benny said <em>Top Dog. </em>Benny <em>knows. </em>He knows the plan, and he’s on board.</p><p>“Thank you,” Dean belatedly calls out, as Benny wanders into his cell and puts his box down. As Dean steps towards him, Benny walks in his direction and holds his fist out for a bump. Dean accepts the offer gratefully, hoping that Benny can read his sincerity. </p><p>“You know I got your back, brother,” Benny tells him, tone serious. “I told you I would, an’ I keep my promises.” </p><p>Dean nods, still fighting against those pesky <em> feelings </em> welling up<em>. </em> He’s so fucking <em> relieved, </em> and they haven’t even done anything yet. All of the balls he’s juggling are still up in the air, but even the barest sense of regaining even a <em> smidge </em>of control in his life feels like a balm to his soul.</p><p>“And?” Castiel pipes up suddenly, from somewhere behind him. Fuck, Dean almost forgot he was there. His voice is laced with something <em> just </em>shy of irritation and when Dean turns, Cas is staring Benny down expectantly.</p><p>In response to his question, Benny actually <em> flushes, </em>something Dean’s never seen the man do, ever. He pulls his newsboy cap off and scratches his head with his free hand. “Boss, I told you—it wasn’t like that, Dean an’ me. I’d never—”</p><p>“And you’ll never again,” Castiel interjects firmly, his arms folding determinedly across his chest.</p><p>Benny nods quickly. Dean knew he was smart. “Yessir,” he agrees, before jamming a thumb up and over his shoulder in the direction of his cell. “Permission to unpack, boss?”</p><p>“Permission granted,” Castiel replies, his eyes still narrowed. Dean glances back and forth between them, just a <em> touch </em>slow on the uptake. He only fully registers what’s happening after Benny’s already disappeared into his room and Cas is motioning for him to follow out into the hall, but Dean’s seen it once or twice, and he’s pretty freaking sure that was two dudes fighting over him.</p><p>“I gotta go to the laundry,” Dean tells Castiel, hurrying to keep up with his—<em>what? Friend?—</em>his <em> whatever’s </em> long strides. He can’t quite help himself, though. “Did you just—<em>scold </em> Benny for fucking me? You <em> know </em>that he was doing me a favor. Cas, we talked about this.”</p><p>Castiel’s expression is curiously dark when he replies, “You no longer require that sort of help. I respect that you chose Benny for your second, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to immediately forget his history.” </p><p>They’re in the admin hallway now, and Dean really needs to peel off and find his way down to his work area before he gets written up. But this is—this is <em> too </em>fucking good to ignore. Cas is defending his honor, now? Working hard to bite back a smirk, Dean grabs the edge of Cas’ rucked-up shirt sleeve and drags him closer to the wall. Castiel rolls his eyes and makes a trivial show of resisting, but he does go.</p><p>“What?” he demands, as Dean’s smirk breaks free.</p><p>“You jealous or something, Cas?” </p><p>Dean’s comment has the desired effect, wiping the overly stern, clenched-jaw look from Castiel’s face and replacing it with a somewhat bewildered one. Cas’ forehead creases and he tilts his head to the side, the <em> genuine </em>confusion he’s experiencing delighting Dean in a way that nothing in here ever does. </p><p>“Of course not,” Cas replies carefully. “I am merely concerned about your well-being. He—” Castiel cuts himself off, apparently fully taking in Dean’s amused expression for the first time. “You’re teasing me,” he says.</p><p>Dean nods, grinning, but to his surprise, Castiel lets out a dramatic huff and covers his eyes with his hand. When he drops it again, he’s blinking harshly, eyes wet and wide as he reaches out to squeeze Dean’s shoulder. It’s the same way that he did back in H2, but softer. “You don’t know how relieved I am to see your sense of humor intact,” he says gently. </p><p>At that, Dean’s smile fades. Not necessarily because he feels <em> worse </em> than he did a minute prior, but the gravity of their current reality is always a smack to the face when it hits. Dean’s used to bottling up trauma and pushing forward—he was practically raised on it—but never <em> so </em> much in such intense succession. Even still, practice makes perfect, and he damn well knows how to keep going at the very worst of times. It’s at least <em> half </em>of what he and Cas have discussed in their sessions.</p><p>Still, Dean feels an almost compulsive desire to let Cas know that he’s not on the verge of slitting his wrists with a sharpened toothbrush handle or something, because the guy clearly worries. “I’m alright,” he says, more or less honestly, though Cas’ face suggests he’s not coming across as super convincing. “Talking to Alfie helped,” Dean adds.</p><p>He and Castiel had ended up stopping in Alfie’s MedSeg room the night prior, on their way back to H2. Alfie was wide awake when they passed, staring forlornly out the door like he was waiting for Dean to walk by, and maybe he was. Even though Dean was emotionally raw and mentally unprepared for the conversation that followed, he couldn't very well just <em> ignore </em> the guy. Literally—if Alfie wanted to talk, that was the <em> least </em>that Dean owed him.</p><p>Castiel (the traitor) stayed in the room with the two of them for <em> maybe </em>the first two minutes and then made some terrible excuse about needing to speak to Tessa and left. Dean glared at his back until he was well out of sight, but unfortunately, that didn’t get Cas to turn around. </p><p>Much as he might hate to admit it, though, Cas was right. He was right about Alfie, was right about leaving them alone, was right about pretty much everything. Alfie—once Dean was able to force himself to make eye contact—was nothing but sincere and earnest. His pleas for inclusion were filled with an admirable desire to fight for himself and a guileless faith in Dean’s abilities that was nothing short of completely unearned. </p><p>In truth, that encounter should probably have made Dean feel way more ashamed than he already did about the whole situation, but something about Alfie’s undimmed <em> fire </em> was contagious. If he could stand up and fight, broken and battered as he was, then certainly, Dean had no excuse at all. He left Medical feeling both reassured and buoyed, knowing beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was freaking <em> lucky </em>to have Alfie on his side and not the other way around.</p><p>Even though Dean owes the kid more than he could ever find a way to repay, somehow, Alfie is the one helping <em> him. </em>One thing is for certain, and that’s now, more than ever, Dean can’t afford to let him down. Can’t let any of them down.</p><p>Cas deserves to hear that newly-found resolve too, after all he’s done, and that’s why Dean says it. Absolutely no other reason, like maybe wanting Cas to be proud of him, to be deserving of Cas’ care and affection. He can fucking dream, but even though Cas is miles out of his league, Dean’s going to do whatever it takes to be worthy of the guy’s presence. He’s still got no friggin’ clue why Cas is so invested, why he’s willing to put his own ass on the line for a bunch of convicts, but—once again, here we are with that gift horse and his mouth, or what-the-fuck-ever.</p><p>Cas’ hand lingers on Dean’s forearm, just the tips of his fingers touching absently, almost like they have a mind of their own. Cas, for his part, is hyper-focused on Dean’s face, scanning it in that way that he does, like he’s reading Dean’s mind. After a minute, he shakes himself off and nods. “I don’t believe you, but I’m glad that you’re up and about, and we’ll talk about the rest later. For what it’s worth, ‘okay’ is a relative term, and there’s no rush for you to define it any other way than what’s absolutely true for you.” </p><p>Quite abruptly, Cas turns on his heel, leaving Dean stunned and speechless in his wake. What the hell do you even <em> say </em> to a guy who drops lines like that so casually? Dean’s well-read and not the idiot people think he is, but he’s not a master with words and his brain doesn’t always work as fast as his mouth moves. <em> Cas </em>is the kind of guy who would hang out with Sam, on the outside. Not some high-school-dropout loser like Dean.</p><p>“Are you coming?” Castiel calls over his shoulder, ending Dean’s pity spiral preemptively. “Cain is here.”</p><p>“Laundry?” Dean asks weakly, shrugging as Cas pauses mid-step to turn half-around and shoot him a <em> look. </em>“Man, you could’ve filled me in sooner. I’m not a friggin’ mindreader.” </p><p>When he jogs to catch up, passing the infirmary and waving briefly to a very haggard-looking Tessa, he finds Cas smiling. “Oh, you think you’re funny,” Dean says, shoving him a little with his shoulder as they turn the corner. “Making me sweat, thinking I’m gonna get written up for skipping work.”</p><p>Cas badges them through the security vestibules between the internal admin area and the Visitation Center. To their right, there’s another door that leads to the unsecured admin hallway that Dean’s only seen firsthand once. Back when he was first processed into the Bay, Naomi had called him down to her office. Presumably to see what a streetwalker looked like in person, Dean has no idea. It was a weird meeting that’s never been repeated since, and no matter what Cas claims about the Warden being misunderstood, that’s just fine with him.</p><p>Dean pulls his gaze away from that side of the prison, and unthinking, grabs the door to the second vestibule as Cas opens it. Semi-lost in thought, he drops a palm to the small of Castiel’s back as they pass through, a gesture that accidentally reveals a <em> lot </em> more than he ever intended to about what he wishes Cas could be. It’s a reflex, and one that Dean can’t <em> believe </em>he let himself become distracted enough to indulge.</p><p>“Oh, shit,” Dean remarks when he realizes, yanking his hand away like Cas is a red-hot iron. He expects a reprimand, maybe for Cas to jerk away or to slap him, and he braces for it emotionally. What Dean <em> doesn’t </em> expect is for Cas’ face to go pink and for Cas himself to fucking <em> stammer </em>like—like maybe…</p><p>“It—it’s quite alright,” Castiel says, ducking his head as they step inside the last vestibule and closing the door behind them. Shocked, Dean’s eyes give him an easy once-over, noting the way Cas’ chest expands with quickened breath, the way his hands fumble a little with the key-card as he badges them into the visitation area. He can’t decide whether it’s a good or bad thing that this is <em> not </em> the time to get into this. In fact, there couldn’t be a <em> worse </em>moment for Dean’s thoughts to wander in such a selfish direction.</p><p>It might be for the best, though, since by the time he remembers that he’s about to come face-to-face with fucking <em>Cain, </em>he’s too close (and there are too many locked doors) for him to even consider trying to panic and bolt. Cain, the founder of the Knights of Hell, the very <em>root </em>of the reason Dean’s life sucks ass, is sitting somewhere in this room. </p><p>Dean’s tongue feels about three sizes too big in his mouth, his throat dry as the Sahara as he scans the space. It’s empty—that wouldn’t be a surprise, since this isn’t a scheduled visitation day—but then, how the hell is <em> Cain </em>here, after all? </p><p>God, Dean really needs to get his thoughts in order and stop realizing important shit on the backslide. “Cas,” he starts, but Cas is already ushering him past the reception desk where Garth is lounging, reading a magazine. </p><p>The lanky guard doesn’t even look up, saluting lazily as they walk by and yawning as he says, “Your lawyer is in Two, Dean.” </p><p>“My—<em>ouch,</em>” Dean complains, flinching as Cas pinches the skin of his belly and shoots him a warning glance. “Right,” Dean course-corrects brightly, flashing Garth his most charming smile. “My, uh, lawyer. That me and Dr. Novak are here to talk to. About—”</p><p>“Your plea deal,” Cas fills in helpfully. “Your progress in therapy and how it’s made you an improved candidate to receive one.” </p><p>Dean sweeps a hand in Cas’ direction, <em> see? That.  </em></p><p>Unperturbed, Garth shoots them finger guns, making a face that suggests he might actually be impressed by Dean’s totally bullshit cover story, which is strangely endearing. Garth doesn’t so much as remove his feet from where they’re crossed at the ankles on the counter as he signs Dean in on the tracking clipboard. “Nice, Nice. Good for you, Dean,” he replies, before turning his attention back to his magazine—<em>Practical Sheep, Goats, and Alpacas.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Weird dude.  </em>
</p><p>As soon as Garth is out of earshot, Dean leans in close to Cas’ ear and mutters, “Dude, did we <em> not </em>just talk about you filling me in ahead of time?!” </p><p>If Dean isn’t mistaken, Cas flushes again, but his face remains serious. “I—I was distracted,” is all he says as he unlocks the door to the private visitation space. It’s closed off and unmonitored via CCTV in order to preserve attorney-client privilege, but there’s a huge cut-out window in the wall for safety.</p><p>On top of that, there are plenty of cameras in the main visitation space—Dean glances up at several as he and Cas move inside the smaller room. He hopes that if there <em> are </em> any remaining dirty guards, none of them are on duty today. And if they <em> are </em> on duty<em>, </em> that they aren’t watching the cameras. And if they <em> are </em> watching the cameras, that they’re not actual Knights.</p><p>Because the thing is, out of the game or not, <em> every </em>Knight knows Cain.</p><p>And <em> the </em> Cain posing as a lawyer to visit accidental Knight and Crowley-asset Dean Winchester isn’t something <em> anyone </em> wants filtering back to the <em> very </em>dangerous guy who thinks he’s the boss. That’s for damn sure.</p><p>Dean pulls his attention away from the cameras, directing it towards the dark, graying head of hair in front of him. Cain is seated with his back to the door and he doesn’t so much as move a muscle when it swings open to allow Dean and Cas in.</p><p><em> That’s a choice, </em> Dean thinks, with grudging respect. <em> This guy isn’t afraid of shit, that’s for sure.  </em></p><p>There are two chairs at the opposite side of the table, and Dean and Cas split to move around and take one each. As Dean turns, he finds Cain’s eyes boring into him, assessing him, looking <em> right </em> the fuck through him. Dean suppresses a shiver—that stare isn’t <em> so </em> unlike the way Cas looks at him every damn day, but Dean likes it about a hundred times less. At least when Cas strips him bare with his eyes, Dean knows he’s just doing it so that he can <em> help. </em></p><p>With Cain, it’s a whole different ballgame. The guy’s simple presence is fucking terrifying, and he hasn’t even said a damn word.</p><p>To the Knight’s educational credit, this is definitely him. The history lessons Dean received along the road to hell didn’t get a damn thing wrong when it came to Cain’s looks <em> or </em> his vibe. On top of that, <em> somehow</em>, Cain looks exactly the same as he did in the pictures Dean’s seen that were taken fifteen, twenty years ago. Looks just like his old mugshot, too.</p><p>Truthfully, Dean can’t lie—in a different context, he wouldn’t turn this guy down. Wouldn’t have been disappointed to glance up and see him sliding onto the next stool at the bar where he set up shop. Wouldn’t have said no even <em> outside </em> of work, would have let this dude take him home and do whatever the hell he wanted, <em> free of fucking charge.  </em></p><p>Alright, so Dean and his issues have always had a little thing for silver-haired daddies who knew what they wanted and rocked that “not afraid to spank” attitude in the bedroom. Well—had a thing for them <em> before, </em> anyway. That was pre-Crowley, though. Now, he’s not sure that kind of energy wouldn’t make his dick deflate and shrivel faster than a balloon at a porcupine’s birthday party. A <em> lot </em> of crap has happened to <em> that </em> Dean to turn him into the one that’s standing in this visitation room today, meeting Cain for the first time, and this Dean just isn’t <em> him </em>anymore.</p><p>So it’s kind of weird that Dean takes one look at Cain’s greying, shoulder-length soft curls, his well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and mustache, and his piercing light blue eyes, and <em> that’s </em> what he thinks. It’s not that he <em> wants </em> this guy—not really, and honestly, the dude scares him enough that he probably wouldn’t dare—it’s more that <em> maybe, </em>just maybe, his old self is still in there somewhere after all.</p><p>That thought gives him courage, and he sticks his hand out with confidence. “I’m Dean,” he says, noting the way that Cain’s eyes dart from his face down to his hand and back again. “Winchester.” They twinkle slightly, though Cain doesn’t smile, but he does shake Dean’s hand with a firm grip. Like an equal.</p><p>“Cain,” he says, like Dean doesn’t know. He releases Dean’s hand and gestures towards one of the still-open chairs. “Sit.”</p><p>“Would you like me to stay?” Castiel asks. The unexpected question makes Dean look up sharply, regretting the move immediately when he realizes Cain’s eyes haven’t left his face. The barest hint of a smile ticks at the corner of his mouth and Dean’s smart enough to know that he just made the decision for Cas. <em> Damn it. </em>His heart thumps in his chest, palms sweating and mouth dry all over again as Cain casually dismisses the only person standing between Dean and a full-on mental breakdown. </p><p>“Dean and I are fine,” Cain tells Cas, waving his hand towards the door. “I’ll knock when we’re done. Or hit the panic button, if Dean here tries to get fresh with me.” Dean makes a face as Cain <em> finally </em> drags his all-seeing eyes away to meet Castiel’s. After a moment of silence—and something weighted that Dean can <em> see </em>but could never put into words—passes between them, Cas nods, reaching over to squeeze Dean’s shoulder one more time. </p><p>“Right outside if you need me,” he says, and he’s definitely not talking to Cain. The door closing behind him clicks loudly, rivaled only by Dean’s subsequent anxious gulp.</p><p>Cain’s back to watching him like he’s the most interesting thing on the planet, and Dean fights not to squirm under his gaze. “So…” he starts, aiming for casual nonchalance, but Cain cuts him off. <em> Alrighty then, no bones about who’s in charge here. </em> Suddenly, the room feels warm and <em> very </em>small, and Dean wishes more than anything that there was a view of the parking lot, some glimpse of the outside world to ground him.</p><p>“Let’s get right into it,” Cain says, but despite those words, he doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he folds his hands together on the table and considers Dean for another long moment. Long enough that Dean grows uncomfortable with the shameless eye contact. He glances away towards the two-way window that looks out over the rest of the visitation room, trying to regain his footing. </p><p>What he gets instead is an eyeful of Cas standing right on the other side of the glass, facing them. His arms are folded across his chest and he’s staring back, motionless like a goddamn statue. It’s a little weird, but stranger than that, Dean actually finds it comforting. </p><p>“You know why you’re here,” Cain finally says, prompting Dean to tear his eyes away from Cas’, nodding. </p><p>“Yes, sir,” he agrees, sitting up a little straighter. </p><p>“Don’t do that,” Cain swiftly chastises in return. That same, knowing little smile tugs at the side of his mouth. “I’m not your father.”</p><p>“Uh, no,” Dean replies, tipping his head to the side and probably making more of a face than he intends to. “My father would have kicked my ass but good for ending up in here by now.”</p><p>“That so? Seems harsh. Maybe you had good reasons. Besides, from what I hear, you’ve been through enough in this place. Ass-kicking seems...what’s the word? Redundant.”</p><p>Dean snorts and mirrors Cain’s position, fiddling with his own hands on the table. “You don’t know what I’ve done,” he hedges. “I might've had it coming.”</p><p>The smile drops off of Cain’s face and his stare intensifies, if that’s even possible. “I do know,” he replies simply. “I know almost everything about you, Dean Winchester. And I know your reasons. As far as deserving it goes, if that were true, then I wouldn’t be here. On the other hand, I was under the impression that <em>you </em>were a man who’d figured out your worth. I’ll tell you, Dean, I’m hesitant to offer you this opportunity if you can’t even look me in the eye and tell me that you deserve it.” </p><p>Licking his lips, Dean raises his gaze from where it’s been focused on his ragged nails, forcing himself to keep from blinking or looking away. </p><p>“This may be hard to believe, in light of who I am and the havoc that the institution I’m responsible for creating has wreaked on your life, but I care about you, Dean.” Cain continues, “I know that I'm doing you a favor. I'm saving you.” Despite his best efforts, Dean knows he must reveal some disbelief in his expression, because Cain sighs and sits back, worrying his lip between his teeth and drumming his fingers.</p><p>“Why?” Dean asks. “Why—why would you? You don’t even know me.”</p><p>“I know enough,” Cain replies. “You and I? We’re a lot alike. Seems unfair that I know so much about you, and you don’t have the same luxury. So, let me tell you this—my story began when I killed my brother, and I’m here today because if I <em> don’t </em>intervene, that's where your story inevitably will end.”</p><p>“Never,” Dean replies swiftly, no hesitation. </p><p>Cain pauses for a minute, nodding absently before he leans forward again with a careless shrug. “What sorts of things have you done over the last few years that you would have decried just as quickly before Crowley came into the picture?” He takes Dean’s silence for the admission it is, and persists. As he talks, Dean does his best to swallow his anger and distress and to <em> not </em> blow his top, sending this “<em>opportunity”, </em>as Cain put it, up in smoke.</p><p>“I’m sure you’ve heard the sanitized version of how the Knights were founded. Two brothers, money, power, equal share of it all—you, too, can be the master of your own destiny if you join us, etcetera, etcetera.” Cain pauses and Dean nods, unsure of where this is headed, but curious enough to shut up and find out. “Yeah, well, it’s bullshit. The truth is, my brother Abel fell in with the syndicate that predated the Knights. They held a kind of power we couldn’t dream of seizing today, and definitely not back then. They did horrible things, Dean. Things you can’t even begin to imagine, and that’s saying something. I won’t even repeat their name—we’re not trying to speak a return into existence. Let’s just call them the Scourge.”</p><p>Cain settles back in his chair, clearly hitting his stride. This doesn’t seem like a story he’s told many people, but at the same time, it’s practiced. Dean finds that interesting. “My brother was ambitious, but he had a blind spot. The leader of the Scourge is someone I believe you’re peripherally familiar with—he goes by the name of Lucifer.”</p><p>“<em>Lucifer?” </em>Dean exclaims, unable to help himself. “The dude Crowley took down his first day here?”</p><p>“The very same,” Cain acknowledges, giving Dean an approving nod. “Lucifer charmed and ensnared Abel, made him promises. Power, riches, Paradise on Earth in exchange for his undying loyalty. He pulled him under, held him there, and by the time I caught on, it was <em>way </em>too late to intervene. Do you understand, Dean? The Scourge was a cult, and Lucifer was going to make my brother into his pet.”</p><p>“The Knights could only do so much. We were strong and we were motivated by love, and we tore the Scourge apart. We stripped it to its bones, killed the loyalists and absorbed the rest. <em> We </em>were the ones who sold Lucifer down the river, who ensured he was put away in this place for the rest of his life. We could have killed him—this was mercy.”</p><p>Dean’s starting to follow now, thinks he sees where the story is going. “But you couldn’t save your brother.”</p><p>Cain narrows his eyes but nods, again apparently approving. “Got it in one,” he replies simply. “The only thing I wanted—the thing that <em> drove </em> me to create the Knights, to do so many evil deeds in the name of <em> one </em>good—in the end was out of my reach. To save, to protect my brother—that was something Lucifer ensured would be impossible. Abel was lost, long before I ever had the chance to rescue him. He would have willingly followed Lucifer into Hell. When all was said and done, that’s exactly what he did.”</p><p>“The stories,” Dean blurts out, leaning forward in his seat. “They said—”</p><p>“That I killed him?” Cain answers mildly, unfazed and unaffected by Dean’s excitement. “It’s true. I couldn’t bear to watch him live corrupted, so I offered Lucifer a deal. His life for Abel’s freedom. I wasn’t under any delusions about what that meant.” Cain goes silent, waiting until Dean processes and manages to meet his gaze again. “What I wasn’t expecting—and should have, but I was young, naive—was the defining condition Lucifer used to crown our deal—I had to be the one who set him free.” </p><p>Cain’s jaw works, and Dean finally slots the last puzzle piece into place, right before Cain says it aloud. “So I killed him.” </p><p>“I would never—”</p><p>Cain shakes his head vehemently, waving Dean off. “You think I never said the same? I <em> loved </em> my brother, more than anything. That’s how this works, Dean. That’s how they <em> get </em> you, it’s why you’re here, now. In this scenario, Crowley is Lucifer, Sam is Abel, and you? You’re me. Dean, Crowley organized to have you pinched. This is <em> his </em> design, and it’s just beginning. He owns people at all levels of the justice system, but I can take that away. The man <em> should </em> be doing life several times over, no ambiguity. Instead, he’ll walk out those doors free and clear in less than two years—unless <em> you </em> help me take that off the table. You do your part, I do mine, and Crowley’s going away for life. Listen, boy. Crowley has your number. It’s only a matter of time until he uses it. He’s already pushed your moral compass—what you’re willing to <em> do </em>in the name of love—further than you ever thought possible. Hasn’t he?” </p><p>They’ve already established that Cain’s right about that, so Dean doesn’t bother to respond. </p><p>“So this is where you finally get a little bit lucky in life. I didn’t create the Knights for this, not after everything I went through. This—what he’s doing <em> disgusts </em>me. I want Crowley castrated in every way possible, just as much as you do.”</p><p>“Doubt that,” Dean interjects, but Cain doesn’t seem remotely upset by the interruption. </p><p>He nods in approval. “Not going to argue with you there. And I know that you have no interest in being a Knight, once you’re free of the Bay. But to my point—<em>when </em> you’re Top Dog, you’ll act like one. You’ll lead the way <em> I </em> would, today. Maybe this isn’t the opportunity you thought you were getting when you signed on with Crowley, but it’s a solid one, all the same. A better one, because mine doesn’t come with strings. You’re not Crowley’s whore anymore, Dean, but if <em> you </em>don’t believe that, you won’t be convincing anyone else, either.” </p><p>Hearing that, Dean takes a deep breath and blows it out. He sits up a little straighter. He stops fidgeting and picking at his nails, cuticles already raw and cracked. “I will,” he finds himself saying—<em>promising</em>. “I’ve got this.” </p><p>Cain goes on, “As Top Dog, you’ll be marked, just like me. Not only as a leader, but a target. With the mark comes a great burden, some would call it a great cost. You’re everything to these people—their boss and their scapegoat, their savior, but also their judge, jury, and executioner. You’ll be hated as much as you’re loved. Don’t ever forget that. Dean, the Knights and I, we did horrible things. And you will too.”</p><p>The energy in the room changes, and Dean senses that Cain is winding down, that he’s said most of what he came here to say. So when one thought in particular continues to needle at him, Dean takes a chance and brings it up. “Why, though?” he asks, “Why now? You were out. I mean, I get the—the anger at Crowley, the shitting on your legacy, but...is it worth it? To throw away everything you’ve worked for and the straight life you’ve built?”</p><p>Surprisingly, Cain laughs, an honest sound with a bitter edge. He smiles at Dean, not unkindly. “Easy,” he replies. “There’s no resisting the mark. There is only remission and relapse. I know who I am, who I always was, and I still have work to do.” He jerks his head over his shoulder, clearly indicating Cas (who Dean suspects might actually <em> be </em>a statue, at this point). “I’m just hoping this guy doesn’t take my fall off the wagon too personally.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes drift to the guy in question, and Cas raises an eye questioningly back at him. It’s subtle, but Dean can recognize the quiet worry in his expression. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly—<em>I’m fine—</em>and Castiel relaxes. Shifting his gaze back to Cain, Dean finds a look of pure amusement on his face. </p><p>“By the way,” Cain says, holding up a finger. “Something our boy out there can’t help you with—Crowley has a phone. He’s likely aware that a coup is happening by now, and when I walk out of here and pull the trigger, that’ll surely light a fire under his ass. By my watch—” Cain makes a show of looking down at his naked wrist “—you have less than twelve hours to pull this off. If Crowley can wrest control of his gang and the prison beyond that, it will be much harder to loosen. You need to make your move while the window is open.”</p><p>“I need to get moving, then.”</p><p>“Indeed. One last thing—about Lucifer. Didn’t you ever wonder how a squirrely guy like Crowley took out a Top Dog? A <em> real </em>one, at that?” He has, but Dean just raises his eyebrows and waits patiently, knowing that Cain will tell him. “Your friend Alastair—”</p><p>“<em>N</em><em>ot </em>my friend,” Dean interjects, just to be crystal-fucking-clear, and Cain’s eyes twinkle.</p><p>“Don’t I know it. Alastair had Lucifer’s food drugged that day, in preparation. They’ve got a contact in the kitchen, on the serving line. Alastair and Roman—<em>your </em> lawyer, Dick Roman—they were the ones who arranged for Crowley’s early transport, who walked him to the cafeteria, who arranged for the other guards to look the other way—the whole kit and kaboodle. Lucifer was <em> gorked </em>when Crowley took him on. His head is as messed up as it is because Crowley kept beating him long after he was unconscious. Cowardly shit, Dean. Hope you didn’t eat breakfast.”</p><p>“I—I didn’t,” Dean stutters, the weight of that news sending him unwittingly into a state of shock. “Holy shit. Are you saying that if I didn’t sleep in today, I might’ve—”</p><p>“Ka-ching,” Cain replies seriously. “Wouldn’t eat at all until this whole thing is over, if I were you. And maybe not before someone sorts out the kitchen staff’s loyalties.”</p><p>The turmoil of Dean’s current emotional state must be showing on his face, because Castiel knocks on the window, looking incredibly concerned. Dean waves him off. “Got it,” he tells Cain, pulling himself together. “Uh—thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Cain replies. “Just remember what I said. Don’t let the power corrupt.”</p><p>Dean shifts to stand, and then hesitates. “Not that I wanna bring this up, but you’re really not going to make me sign anything?”</p><p>To his surprise, Cain laughs heartily. “That whole contract business is more Crowley’s thing. I don’t have room in my house for a hundred fucking filing cabinets full of who-owes-who what.” </p><p>“And Sam will be safe?”</p><p>“Sam already <em> is </em>safe, and he’s none the wiser of his big brother’s depravity. So long as you uphold your end of things, he’ll stay that way.”</p><p>There’s a slightly awkward silence that follows, though Dean can sense that Cain is enjoying it. Or at least, enjoying watching him squirm. Ultimately, he gives Cain another sharp nod and moves to stand. “Uh—I should probably—”</p><p>Cain catches his arm as Dean rounds the side of the table, physically holding him back. He clears his throat, releasing Dean easily when he stiffens. “Not that it’s any of my business, but seeing as how I’ve shared far worse—the mark? It <em> is </em> easier to handle if you have someone who loves you by your side. I did, once upon a time. She knew who I was, what I was. She loved me unconditionally. She <em> forgave </em>me.” </p><p>Dean frowns, confused, but he doesn’t leave. “Why are you telling me this?”</p><p>Before Cain can answer, the door to the room beeps and clicks open. It reveals a distressed-looking Castiel standing there, backlit by some terrible fluorescent lighting. His eyes are anxious and only for Dean. </p><p>With a smile, Cain glances over his shoulder at their party crasher and then knowingly back at Dean. “Think about it,” is all he says.</p><p>***</p><p>Castiel takes the news about Crowley in stride, kicking into high-gear “fix-it” mode before they’re even back through the doors to the secure area of the prison. Without discussion, Dean gets yanked unceremoniously into his office, Cas’ expression pensive and carefully blank as he closes the door behind them. He looks like his mind is racing a mile a minute and he doesn’t want any of it to show on his face. He motions for Dean to sit (he does) in one of the worn chairs facing his desk, and then spends several minutes making phone calls and not telling Dean jack shit about why. </p><p>When he finally hangs up, he still looks concerned, but there’s hope there, too. “Wheels are in motion,” he tells Dean, glancing up at the clock hanging just above his door. “It’s eleven-fifteen now, your window is H-block’s lunch period, so in approximately one-half hour. The guards will not be a problem—certain orders are coming from Naomi, not me. As for your crew—”</p><p>“I’m not ready for this, Cas,” Dean blurts out. It’s not warm in Cas’ office—opposite, actually, especially in just a t-shirt—but he’s freaking sweating. His fingers are about to go numb where he’s been twisting them in his lap and his heart is about to explode from his chest. And <em> why? </em> He has all the damn puzzle pieces, the signed permission slips. There’s only one goddamn way out of this and it’s not like he has a choice. Sam’s safety, Alfie’s shot at sanity, his own <em> life, </em>a chance to maybe live it beyond these walls—it’s all on the line.</p><p>With Cas and now Cain, he’s got all the damn answers and all the support, so why does this still feel so <em> hard?  </em></p><p>Across from him, Cas’ face softens, sympathetic. “Dean,” he says, and just the way his name sounds in Cas’ mouth breaks Dean’s heart. “You’ve been conditioning yourself to think and react in a very particular way for years.” Cas’ voice is gentle, his body language inviting as reaches across the desk, just slightly too far away to touch. At least, he is if Dean doesn’t reach out in return (which he doesn’t—after all, he has <em> some </em>dignity left). </p><p>“You taught your body and your brain to act submissive, to appear both weak and non-threatening in crisis situations, because those were the things you needed to do to save your life. And Sam’s,” Castiel tacks on, almost regrettably. The little note of sadness is there and gone in a flash as Castiel presses forward. “You did nothing more than what you absolutely <em> had </em>to do. But now, in less than forty-eight hours time, everything has changed. You’re being told that to survive, you must suddenly do each and every one of the things you convinced yourself you never could.”</p><p>Ducking his head, Dean inhales and exhales slowly, closing his eyes and pushing his fingers into the lids when they burn. He’s <em> so </em>goddamn tired.</p><p>“I have no doubt that you can do it. Ready or not, you’ll rise to the occasion—you always have. You are <em>anything </em>but weak, and you know that. Still, once the dust settles, you’ll need to learn to give yourself permission to stop suppressing your voice, your inner strength. And to forgive yourself, as well. I know how hard that can be. I know that this—all of it—is a huge ask. It must feel impossible, and I know we’re on a rushed timeline—if I had my way, we’d have weeks of discussion and intense preparation for this moment. We’d have time for you to adjust and to cope. But that’s not what life has given us, Dean.”</p><p>“One more rodeo making lemonade from a shit sandwich, huh?” </p><p>Castiel squints and tilts his head to the side. “Let’s abandon that metaphor. Immediately, if possible.” Even with what feels like the weight of the world on his shoulders, Dean manages to crack a smile. When he does, Castiel stands up, rounds his desk, and sits in the chair next to Dean, impulsively reaching out to grab his hand and hold on. “Focus, Dean,” he says, very seriously. “Eyes on the prize. Hot guy, hot car, smoking pile of ashes left in the rearview.”</p><p>His words catch Dean off guard, and with everything that’s going on, Dean’s usual stockpile of snappy comebacks fails to deliver. His usual emotional armor is down, has been since that freaking hug Cas saw he needed and gave him so freely last night. It’s not intentional, but Dean doesn’t have the goddamn emotional bandwidth to cope with <em> all of </em> this <em> and </em>pretend he doesn’t want Cas like hell, too. </p><p>Eyes locked on Cas’ pools of ocean blue, Dean doesn’t trust himself to reply. Instead, he twists his hand where it sits in Cas’ and slides their fingers together, glancing down at where they’re joined briefly before focusing back at Cas’ face. He could lie, he could vamp, he could joke, or—</p><p>“Eyes on the prize,” Dean repeats, without looking away. He doesn’t miss Cas’ sharp intake of breath, the way his mouth opens to say something—probably to reject Dean nicely, because that’s the kind of guy Cas is—when there’s a knock at the door. Honestly, Dean doesn’t know whether to be pissed or relieved, but it’s probably that last thing because—<em>fuck—</em>clock says eleven-thirty. It’s fucking showtime, any minute now. </p><p>
  <em> Eyes on the prize. </em>
</p><p>Cas is speaking through the tiny crack he’s made in the doorway before Dean even realizes he’s moved. That’s kind of concerning, and prompts him to take a moment and a few deep, centering breaths. Dean <em> refuses </em> to let himself dissociate—no matter what happens, no matter how scary things get, he <em> has </em> to stay in the moment. This is <em> not </em>the time to retreat into his own head. So many goddamn people are counting on him, and there’s enough danger without Dean’s own coping mechanisms accidentally bringing him down.</p><p><em> Eyes on the prize, </em>Dean repeats internally, right as Cas glances over his shoulder and motions for him to follow. </p><p>Outside Cas’ office, Dean sees Tessa hurrying ahead of them down the hall and back into the infirmary. “Your crew is waiting,” Castiel explains as they follow after, albeit slightly more slowly. “I met with each one of them this morning—your instincts were excellent. They were all quick to jump on board. I think once everything is said and done that you’ll have natural, widespread support in here, Dean. After you take Crowley out, I don’t anticipate any issues. I doubt very much that anyone will challenge your claim.” </p><p>“Challenge my—wait, that’s a possibility?” </p><p>Castiel pauses just outside the infirmary, turning to face Dean with his eyebrows raised. “Of course, Dean. Anything is possible. That isn’t a good reason not to try.” Cas puts his hand on the door knob as Dean shifts his gaze to stare through the window at the motley crew looking back. Benny, Max, Jesse, Cesar—they’re all there. Even Alfie is dressed and standing on his own two feet (well—leaning against a gurney, at the moment—it’s progress). Dean genuinely hopes Alfie won’t actually have to fight, because he’s pretty sure a strong breeze would tip the guy over, but his presence at Dean’s side (and the <em> statement </em>that will make) feels worth the risk.</p><p>They all look...<em> ready. </em> Set determination in their faces, body language that betrays anxious excitement, maybe even hope. Seeing them now, like this, how ready these men are to stand behind Dean and stand <em> for him—</em>it’s a cold, hard dose of reality. There are a <em> lot </em> of people in this place that are suffering because of Crowley. This isn’t <em> about </em> Dean, not really. It’s about <em> all </em>of them. The Bay has turned into a playground for evil, with cruel and unusual punishment being the name of the game. </p><p>Somehow, that has everything settling crystal clear into place in Dean’s mind. It makes his mission feel <em> inevitable, </em> and yes, fucking <em> righteous. </em> Hell yeah, he’s the fucking guy. Hell <em> yeah, </em> he’s going in there and he’s going to make this right. <em> Saving people, </em> helping the helpless—maybe it’s stupid or maybe it’s just the mounting adrenaline talking, but to Dean, this feels like what he’s <em> supposed </em> to be doing in life. </p><p>And that’s all that matters right now.</p><p>“Dean?” Castiel says, touching his shoulder gently as he pushes the door open. “You can do this. Don’t be afraid to lead them.”</p><p>But Dean’s already bouncing on the balls of his feet when he steps through the door, smiling as his newly-minted crew turns to give him their attention. After all, things can only go up from here.</p><p>“So.” Dean jokes, because it’s who the fuck he is, and if he’s doing this, he’s doing it as himself. All the way. “You guys wanna go to a real party?”</p><p>***</p><p>The metal double doors that lead into the cafeteria both feel cool under Dean’s palms as he pushes them wide and strides through. He shoves hard enough that the doors swing wide and bang against their hinges, a move that would definitely get him written up (at least) any other time. Not today, though, as there’s no sign of the brass anywhere at all. In fact, the last guard Dean saw was lingering nonchalantly in the hall outside H2, trying (and failing) to look inconspicuous. </p><p>Gotta hand it to Cas, the guy really came through on his promises. And sure, Dean would be a lot more confident if Cas was physically by his side, but it’s not like that was ever on the menu. Not for who Dean is and what he has to do. Cas is still <em> with him, </em>though, watching events unfold live from the CCTV room downstairs, ready to send in the calvary if (when) shit takes a turn for the worst.</p><p>Dean’s <em> not </em> alone—has maybe never been <em> less </em>alone in his entire life. </p><p>That thought bolsters him, gives him the courage to go forward.</p><p>It’s a hell of an entrance. Dean bursts confidently into a room already full to the brim, <em> tons </em> more inmates present than are usually eating at this time. Dean has a feeling that’s also the result of Cas’ frantic phone calls and the lack of brass oversight—rumors spread quickly in here. Even still, the sight of the crowd makes his heart beat a little faster. This is an <em> audience, </em> these people are here for <em> him. </em>They fill the tables and line the walls, most of them not even pretending to eat. </p><p>They <em> are </em>acting as nonchalant as possible, though—no one wants to be remembered as the guy who preemptively jumped ship and then tried to climb back on board.</p><p>Dean rips his gaze away from trying to identify various faces, shifting his attention to his target.</p><p>In the middle of it all, at a table surrounded by his usual gang and few remaining loyalists, Crowley ignores the fuss completely. His own focus is on his meal—Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes—and the way he first cuts into the meat and then lifts it to his mouth is almost delicate. Dean’s gotta give it to him, he’s cool as a fucking cucumber. At least on the outside, he’d completely buy that the guy isn’t concerned about what’s happening at all. </p><p>Doors falling shut behind them, Dean comes to a full stop with his guys flanking him proudly. He crosses his arms over his chest and smirks like the cocky bastard he <em> used </em>to be (and is starting to believe he could maybe be again). </p><p>“Howdy,” he says brightly, ignoring Crowley completely as he drops his arms and heads casually over to the buffet line. Cain’s warnings about the corrupt kitchen staff echo in Dean’s head, but he’s not worried. His crew knows not to touch the food, and this isn’t about <em> eating. </em>It’s about making a point. </p><p>Grabbing a tray, Dean slaps it down onto the counter and slides it along. “I’ll have some of everything,” he tells the scowly dude that’s serving today, flashing him a wide grin and a wink. He doesn’t miss the way his selections come from the (otherwise empty) rear of each pan—seems like Cain’s intel was solid. Dean accepts his overflowing plate with a polite, “Thank you,” and waits patiently at the end of the line.</p><p>His guys follow suit. When they all have their food, the group makes their way over to Crowley’s table together, surrounding and towering over the sitting goons. Immediately, the brainless assholes are all on their feet, pivoting to stand toe-to-toe with their would-be challengers, chairs scraping and growls erupting from throats.</p><p>“Down, boys,” Crowley calmly instructs, waving an unworried hand and gesturing for them all to be seated again. Once they are, he leans in to the oversized lunk on his right and barks, “Scatter.” The guy is out of his seat and melting into Dean’s peripheral vision before he can so much as blink. “Dean,” Crowley continues, pulling the now-empty chair back invitingly. “Please, do join us. I’m sure we can have a civilized discussion about whatever your issue is, once we take hunger out of the equation. Trust me, you’ll feel better after a good meal.”  </p><p>“Don’t mind if I do,” Dean replies. He uses his own tray to push the one that’s already sitting there towards the middle of the table before dropping lazily into a relaxed sprawl. He settles down, slinging his arm over the back of the chair and regarding Crowley with open interest. He’s all too aware that <em> every </em> pair of eyes in the room is trained on him—you could hear a <em> pin </em> drop, aside from the scrape of Crowley’s fork against his near-empty plate. Despite the large number of men gathered, barely anyone even <em> breathes.  </em></p><p>Crowley chews and swallows his last bite of steak. “Delicious,” he remarks, touching his napkin to the corner of his mouth. “A rarity for this dump. I could eat another plateful. Go on, Dean, I won’t bite. Enjoy your lunch.” </p><p>Dean tips his head to one side, scratching the grown-in scruff on his chin aimlessly. He’s almost <em> giddy, </em> breathing intentionally to contain it, using the same technique Cas taught him to control his anxiety<em>. </em>It works, but it almost makes him laugh—despite the fact that Crowley’s men are still staring him down like they want to rip him apart, stitch him back together, and then do it all again, Dean is the one who is fully in control here.</p><p>They just don’t know it yet.</p><p>Feeling like he has all the time in the world, Dean glances up over his shoulder and meets Alfie’s gaze, one side of the kid’s battered mouth ticking up in a conspiratorial smile. It’s clear that he sees exactly what Dean sees—<em>an opportunity</em>. Buoyed with an additional burst of <em> I can fucking do this</em>, Dean confidently picks up his plate of food and drops it unceremoniously on top of Crowley’s empty one. It lands with a clatter that echoes in the airless room.</p><p>“You know what,” Dean says casually. “I’m still kinda full from breakfast. But hey, you enjoyed yours so much, have mine. I <em> insist.” </em> Behind him, he hears a tiny little snicker—<em>Alfie—</em>and then another—<em>Benny—</em>and then a few more, and in no universe that exists could Dean stop the grin threatening to split his face. </p><p>It’s the first time he’s ever seen Crowley balk. The guy is usually so <em>slick, </em>so unflustered. Calm, cool, collected, <em>in charge—</em>all of those things come as easily to Crowley as wearing a silk tie. Showing weakness isn’t an option, exposing any disquiet beneath the surface is just not how Crowley <em>rolls. </em>Eternally unbothered—up until <em>right now, </em>anyway—and Dean’s been convinced, it’s not really an act, it’s who he <em>is. </em></p><p>Except, Crowley doesn’t want to eat Dean’s food, and he wasn’t prepared for the offer. <em> This </em> is what Cas said he hoped would happen, what Dean was counting on when he stepped through those doors. Pride goes before the fall, and Crowley has <em> never </em>seen himself as capable of falling. It’s a dangerous combination, especially when someone doesn’t realize how loose their footing really is.</p><p>“Something wrong?” Dean asks innocently. In front of him, Crowley’s eyes are locked intently on the steak, his face slowly but surely turning bright red in poorly-suppressed rage. Dean can’t help but feel pleased with himself—this asshole <em> always </em> underestimated him, always assumed he was <em> stupid. </em> That’s his mistake—Dean might have weaknesses, might be willing to sacrifice his well-being for Sam, for the greater good—but he’s never, ever been <em> dumb.  </em></p><p>Dean doubts he would have been able to admit that (even to himself) six months ago. In turn, he supposes that maybe a little bit of what Cas has been so adamantly trying to drill into his head <em> did </em>stick, after all.</p><p>Either way, it’s Crowley’s bad for assuming that he’s always the smartest guy in the room. In fact, he never was—just the guy holding the best hand of cards. </p><p>Too bad Dean’s game has <em> always </em> been bluffing. <em> Fake it ‘til you make it, right? </em>But it ain’t even bluffing when you’ve got a goddamn royal flush.</p><p>The second Dean dares to think it—<em>holy fuck, we could actually win—</em>seems to be the <em> very </em> same moment Crowley realizes his own predicament. With an angry roar, he springs from his seat at the table, chair flying backward and toppling over as he falls into a fighting stance. </p><p>Dean’s eyes track as Crowley’s hand shoves deep into the pocket of his pants, emerging with a pretty nasty-looking knife. It’s not a homemade shiv—that would be expected, a toothbrush melted around a sharp that’s been broken out of a safety razor. No, this is an actual, honest-to-god <em>knife. </em>An expensive one, at that, if the fancy blade and intricate carvings on the handle are any indication. If Dean ever had any doubt that some guards put whatever Crowley asks for straight into his pocket, it would have gone up in smoke at the mere sight of that weapon.</p><p>“Whoa,” Dean says, tossing both hands into the air in mock-surrender, despite the fact that he has no intention of backing down. He stands slowly, moving his chair aside with his knee, peripherally aware that Crowley’s goons <em> aren’t </em>rushing to back him up. Instead, they’re moving quietly away from the table, allowing Benny and Max to pull it to the side, creating a hole in the center of the room.</p><p>“Hey, you know how this goes, Crowley,” Dean reasons. “Top Dog challenge is mano-e-mano, no weapons. This is between you and me, so let’s settle it fair and square. Fists and feet, no blades. Them’s the rules.” </p><p>“There are <em> no </em> rules in here but the ones I set,” Crowley snaps back, brandishing the knife openly. Dean can’t help but glance up at the camera in the corner of the room—he hopes Cas keeps his trigger finger steady, because weapon or not, Dean <em> has </em>this. Crowley never stood a chance.</p><p>The other inmates have formed a natural little ring that boxes them in, and Dean and Crowley begin to rotate around it, eyeing each other up. The members of their respective crews are interspersed at the edges, but no one interferes. That’s encouraging—it was the only thing Cas couldn’t help Dean predict, how <em> far </em>Crowley’s goons would go to protect him. Turns out, the answer is, “not very.” </p><p>Because he is who he is, Dean uses that fact to needle at his asshole boss, riling him up even further. He gestures loosely towards the crowd. “Seems like these guys already figured out what a has-been you are, Fergus,” he quips with a smirk. “That’s the trouble with picking friends who go where the power is. Soon as you lose it—” Dean snaps his finger and shrugs. “Poof, they’re gone, too.” </p><p>To Dean’s delight, Crowley takes the bait, turning increasingly feral by the second. He’s like a cornered rabid animal, and when he inevitably charges forward, Dean swears his eyes flash red. </p><p>The knife theoretically gives Crowley a slight advantage, but Dean still parries his advance easily. He manages to smack the wrist of the hand Crowley’s holding the knife in with the side of his forearm before shoving Crowley’s opposite shoulder and sending him careening off-balance. Even more amusing, he bumbles headfirst into Benny, who simply catches him, spins him around, and sends him stumbling back into the circle. </p><p>“Tough break,” Dean continues, voice dripping with false sympathy. “You work your <em> whole life </em> to become a murderous, raping asshole. You buy, beg, and steal your way to the top of the food chain, and it all gets taken away by <em> one guy</em>. A freaking <em> lackey.</em>” He turns to address the crowd. “Hey, did you all know our big man on campus had his strings cut?” Dean’s revelation sends a rumbling rippling through the room, the confusion and excitement of all the onlookers only adding to the tense atmosphere. </p><p>“Oh yeah,” Dean continues, playing off of them. “He’s just some guy, now. No power, no influence, no connections on the outside. <em> Damn,” </em> Dean swears, relishing the way sweat beads on Crowley’s forehead and his face turns <em> beet- </em> fucking-red. “Hell, even <em> I </em> have <em> some </em>pull on the outside.” He stops pacing around the edge of the circle and grins, throwing his arms wide. “And I’m just the prison whore!” </p><p>That’s the phrase that takes Crowley definitively over the edge, and he lunges forward with intent. Dean dodges and blocks, but he can’t quite disable his opponent as easily as he did the first time. They’re in it now—fists and feet flying, Dean just <em> barely </em>avoids being slashed by the knife time after time—until he’s no longer quite that lucky. </p><p>Crowley gets the very tip of his blade into the meat of Dean’s cheek in a chance move. It’s not much of a choice—Dean’s lucky he’s able to knock Crowley’s arm away from its intended target (his chest)—glad to take the lesser hit. The slice smarts and has blood dripping warm down the side of his face, but a quick press of Dean’s tongue to the inside of his cheek suggests it’s superficial. </p><p><em> Only way out is through, </em> Dean reminds himself, recovering fast and launching forward to land a killer right hook to the side of Crowley’s gloating face. Crowley stumbles, spitting blood that lands in a nasty <em> splat </em>on the dirty linoleum, but he doesn’t go down. Internally, Dean is kind of impressed, not that he can dwell on being so for long as the edge of the knife quickly flashes in his face once more.</p><p>Angry now, Crowley’s moves are becoming wild and unfocused, fueled by hate and fury and desperation. He’s unpracticed, and once he begins to tire, all the knives in the world couldn’t save him. Dean’s years of scrapping on the street, his muscles sculpted by both cardio and daily workouts, swiftly gain the upper hand. </p><p>Before Dean finally gets Crowley pinned on the floor, he takes another slash to his upper arm and one to the right side of his belly. Neither of the wounds are deep or even enough to slow him down, and Dean takes advantage of the jab at his stomach, grabbing Crowley’s wrist and twisting hard when he tries to pull away.</p><p>Exhausted, bruised and plenty bloody from Dean’s fists alone, Crowley collapses to his knees. He cries out in pain, begs for mercy, but Dean doesn’t stop. Holding Crowley’s wrist high, he squeezes until the knife drops helplessly from his fingers, landing on the floor with a tinny clatter. As soon as it’s gone, Dean jerks his knee up to connect hard with Crowley’s face, feeling his nose crumple in a super-satisfying crunch of bone on bone. </p><p>This time, Crowley goes down hard and doesn’t get back up. His reddened arm drops uselessly above his head as he stares dazedly at the ceiling through glazed eyes. Blood is streaming actively from his nose and his mouth, puddling dark on the floor beneath him. </p><p>Dean towers over Crowley’s limp body, hard and unapologetic. His chest is heaving, he’s buzzing head-to-toe from adrenaline, breathing hard, and he’s fucking <em> triumphant</em>. He bends to retrieve the knife, flipping it over in his palm and worrying the sculpted handle between his fingers.</p><p>He’d be lying if he claimed that he didn’t think about it. It would be <em> so </em> damn easy to slide the blade in between Crowley’s ribs—right place, he could puncture a lung and nick Crowley’s heart in one shot. He’d be dead before the ambulance even pulled up to the loading bay, <em> done deal. </em>The guy would deserve it, too, of that Dean has no lingering doubt. He probably wouldn’t even regret it, doubts the sight would haunt his nightmares, not after everything Crowley’s done.</p><p>He stares down in consideration, unflinching as Crowley gasps and wheezes like a fish. Dean plants a foot right in the middle of his sternum, just in case, but it’s clear that Crowley isn’t going anywhere. Just as he’s flipping the knife into position, Dean glances up and catches Alfie’s eye.</p><p><em> God</em>, the kid looks so damn innocent. It’s clear from Alfie’s expression that he’s team “Off the Bastard,” but Dean—Dean sees something else. Something <em> far </em> more scary than the idea of him becoming a killer, even for good reason. This kid, this prison—they’ve all known <em> nothing </em>but terror for months now, nothing but violence and tit-for-tat retribution.</p><p>Whatever spell picking up that knife cast over Dean, in that moment, it breaks. He remembers Cain’s words and they have him making a split-second decision that he can’t be one hundred percent sure he won’t regret later. As soon as he makes it, though, Dean is <em> sure </em>that he’d make it again and again, every damn time.</p><p>He’s not a killer. His legacy is supposed to be something else, Dean knows that now.</p><p>He flips the knife in his hand one last time and peers down at Crowley curiously. “You always have a choice,” he says. “You can roll over and die, or you can keep fighting, no matter what.” Stepping away, he pockets the knife and raises his hand high in the air. “We’re voting,” he calls out, walking around the circle and speaking to the entire crowd. “Everyone who wants Crowley as Top Dog, let me hear you.” </p><p>The room goes fucking <em> silent, </em>goddamn crickets, and Dean’s heart soars. Benny takes the opportunity to step forward and clap him on the shoulder. “Everyone who wants Dean?” </p><p>The room <em> explodes </em>in sound. Cheers and yelling, the kind of loud affirmation that is about as unambiguous as it gets. “Holy shit,” Dean breathes, looking around and taking in all the relieved, happy faces, genuinely stunned by all the support. </p><p>“Prison whore it is,” Benny says quietly, just for Dean, a soft grin lighting up his face. He’s joking, of course, his words not even loud enough to be heard over the continuous dull roar. </p><p>Dean mirrors his expression right back. “Thank you,” he says, before turning his attention to the sprawled mess still lying on the floor. “One more thing.” He holds up two fingers and motions for the inmates on the far side of the circle to part and let him pass. Dean walks through the space they create, making his way towards the cafeteria’s exit. On the wall beside the double doors sits the panic button. It still feels like it’s mocking him, all red and shiny and off-fucking-limits for God knows what reason.</p><p>“Some of these rules need to change,” he says simply, reaching out to hover bloody fingers over top of the button. </p><p>Turning towards the crowd, he’s just in time to see Crowley raise his head, scowling angrily at Dean, even now. “Your way will backfire,” he coughs out, flecks of red shooting from his mouth as he fights to talk. “You. Will. Burn.”</p><p>Dean just shrugs, unbothered. “Hate to bust your bubble, sweetheart, but thanks to you? I’m goddamn fireproof.” </p><p>Without further hesitation, Dean’s fingers press down on the glossy, untouched plastic until the overhead lights start to flash and the prison-wide alarms sound. It’s only seconds before the PA explodes overhead, announcing the expected lockdown and a Code Black in the cafeteria. </p><p>Dean smiles, and strides out the doors without so much as a backward glance.</p><p>***</p><p>Cas finds him only steps away from the admin hallway, bursting through the door to the stairwell with a team of guards in riot gear flooding out around him. He stops short at the sight of Dean, but as one of the men in uniform grabs his arm and clearly assumes the worst, Cas’ protective instincts thankfully kick back in. </p><p>“I’ve got him,” Castiel reassures the guard, taking Dean by the arm himself. “Contain the situation in the Caf, I’ll escort Winchester to Medical.” </p><p>It’s clear to Dean that the brass has very specific orders to follow, because the guard barely flinches, nodding and taking off at a run to catch up with the rest of his team. Castiel doesn’t waste any time, dragging Dean bodily down the hall and past the infirmary, all the way to his office. </p><p>“Cas, what—”</p><p>He badges open the door and tugs Dean inside, barely waiting until it clicks closed behind them to yank Dean into his arms and squeeze. </p><p>Dean freezes for a hot second before relaxing into the hug he didn’t realize he so desperately needed. A small smile tugs at the side of his mouth. “Alright,” he says, “Okay.” He pats Castiel on the back first and then thinks, <em> fuck it, </em>fisting the fabric of Cas’ dress shirt in both hands and holding on tight. “It’s okay,” he repeats, not entirely sure who the words are for. “It’s alright.”</p><p>Cas abruptly pulls back, holding him at arm’s length, and the storm of emotions warring on his face throws Dean for a loop. He doesn’t think—because today is not a day for thinking—he just acts. With blood on his hands and an open wound on his face, Dean’s heart throbs in his chest with more than just adrenaline. Inside his head, his brain—his last fucking line of defense—says, <em> take.  </em></p><p>When Cas’ gaze falls to his lips, that’s it, that seals the deal. Dean dives in headfirst.</p><p>Kissing Cas is rough, even though his lips are soft and sweet. Fear and longing all roil and roll into a desperate urge to seek comfort and reassuring solace. On his tongue, Dean can taste salt and copper, coffee, and <em> Cas. </em> Most importantly, Cas’ hands twist tightly into his shirt and he kisses back, kisses like <em> fuck, </em>he really needs this too. </p><p>Dean never, ever wants to let him go.</p><p>
  <em> Hot guy. Hot car. Ashes. Sunset. </em>
</p><p>In that moment, Dean’s vision of the future feels more real than it ever has before.</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: The Reconstruction Era, starting from Dean’s inside out, though not limited to him or the prison. Someone finally has a good birthday. Hope and Spring are on the horizon. </p><p>Don't be fooled, there's still a lot more excitement to come ;)</p><p>Also the edit is mine and no, i do not have a life</p><p>also, 70k to first kiss, lmao. that might be a record for me 🤣</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Reconstruction Era, starting from Dean’s inside out, though not limited to him or the prison. Someone finally has a good birthday. Hope and Spring are on the horizon.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I made an edit for the pre-kiss scene and I want y'all reading as a WIP to see it, so I'll paste it at the top of this chapter, too :-P needs moar blood tho.</p><p>ALSO: I just want to drop a reminder that I've tried to warn everyone many, many times that this is not a perfect, cookie-cutter story. It's about shades of gray, in choices and morality, and everything that comes with that. What does "good" mean? Who defines what is "good" or "evil"? Who is anyone to tell *anyone* else how to cope with their life, or that their way of processing trauma is "wrong"?</p><p>This also feels like a good place to drop that all trauma survivors cope differently. A trauma survivor is writing this, so you MAY see shades of my own choices/coping mechanisms reflected, or perhaps they are shades of people close to me, and how I witnessed them cope, or even past patients. Either way--there is no WRONG way to be a trauma survivor. No wrong way to feel. No timeline or set script to "forgive" someone or to deem that they do not, in fact, require forgiveness. </p><p>Yes, this was inspired by the comments section last time, and yes, I am pushing back on the idea that Dean needs to feel a certain way or treat Benny a certain way because from the reader POV, Benny's choices may not have been perfect. That...is literally the point. From DEAN's POV, he has decided that Benny's approach and his attitude were and are helpful, and he trusts Benny. That's *DEAN* the trauma survivor's decision, and his alone to make, which is actually quite an important concept. It's also a great example of what an outsider might mark as "unhealthy" coping or abuse-apologist behavior r/t Benny. Too bad. Not all trauma coping is neat and clean, sometimes it's messy and simply amounts to the best the person can do. Sometimes it makes others uncomfortable. If that is TOO TOUGH of a concept, this is not the fic for you! That's ok! I have plenty of pure fluff, go check that out. </p><p>Ultimately, you can read and interpret this story however you want, I can't stop you. I'd encourage you, though, to step back and stop trying to put everything in black and white, "good" and "evil" categories, because you're going to have a tough time with this. These characters are as real as I can make them. I'm not going to address *every* single thing Dean's been through because 1) that is boring and 2) DEAN wouldn't, because that's not how real humans process trauma, not how they cope.</p><p>Anyway, after this extended intro and the comparative dullness to last chapter, I fear this update will be a letdown--sorry?? Also sorry it is late, I had a medical procedure done today and got very sick. But I am here now! </p><p>Warnings:<br/>--&gt;Really nothing except for Castiel thinking some unethical thoughts about Dean (wbk).<br/>--&gt;Mention of blood/injuries but nothing graphic or even new.<br/>--&gt;i'm pretty sure that is all?? Please feel free to suggests warnings/triggers if I missed them, I am ALWAYS happy to add to this list so that people can curate their experiences.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>One positive thing about winter at the shore is that it supposedly leaves as quickly as it comes. That doesn’t mean the <em> cold </em>goes with it—on the contrary, if Castiel has to keep riding his motorcycle in these arctic temperatures, he’s fairly certain he’ll be fingerless by March—but Naomi insists that the ice and snow are a done deal by January’s end. That the rest of the “cold season” is essentially a walk in the (freezing) park.</p><p>Castiel is increasingly sure she’s just drunk all of the times she’s outside, which—considering the demands of her job as of late—amounts to essentially never, anyway.</p><p>Either way, Naomi’s excessive optimism regarding the weather isn’t making Castiel any warmer out here in reality. Especially since he’s currently sitting in the heat-less living room of his brand-new home and it is forty-two degrees <em> inside</em>. Sighing a stream of icy vapor-clouds, Castiel glances around with increasing dismay and regret. He takes in the slightly sagging popcorn ceiling, the stained walls, the trash-covered floors. Realizes with a sinking feeling that those are the <em> nice </em>features the house has to offer. </p><p>He’s patently <em> not </em> looking at the giant hole in the wall where someone hacked away the drywall before pulling out and stripping the copper wiring. Or the evidence of the small flood that left mold colonizing the baseboards of the modest kitchen. Or the cockroach family that rather rudely hasn’t even bothered to <em> pretend </em>to be threatened by Castiel’s presence. </p><p>Rubbing his hands together and blowing into their cradle for warmth, Castiel shifts against the growing discomfort in his ass cheeks. He supposes that’s what he gets for sitting on a milk crate, but it was the least objectionable item available, including the floor. “Idiot,” he mutters, despite the fact that there’s no one but him around to hear it. He’s the one the sentiment is directed towards, anyway. Castiel scowls and shivers, leather jacket wholly inadequate, even with a sweatshirt stuffed underneath. </p><p>
  <em> What was he thinking?  </em>
</p><p>He wasn’t thinking at all. Castiel realizes that <em> now, </em>not that it’s doing him any good. Scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirty floor, he thinks about the events that brought him here, today.</p><p>He’d been flying high. It had been two (very short) days since Dean’s magnanimous ascent to Top Dog after defeating Crowley, and Castiel was taking somewhat of a victory cruise around town on his hard-earned day off. The weather had been unseasonably warm, doing nothing to temper his reckless, <em> happy </em> mood, and Castiel had felt...<em>free.  </em></p><p>As his motorcycle tore through the quiet streets close to the beach on the southern end of the town, Castiel happened across some sort of event. A group of people, a podium, and a large truck that declared itself, “TLA AUCTIONS: Specializing in Commercial and Residential Real Estate Liquidation! Ask About Our All-Inclusive Estate Specials!” </p><p>As one does <em> (that’s Castiel’s excuse and he’s sticking to it)</em>, he slowed and came to a stop. Parking his bike and losing his helmet, he lifted his aviators to take a closer look. The auctioneers were set up outside a small, rather attractive-looking bungalow, seemingly preparing to begin the proceedings at any moment. As Castiel wandered into the front yard, he realized that the majority of people present were staff, and not bidders. It was only <em> natural </em>to stick around and see how the auction would go.</p><p>No one was allowed inside the home, but from the casual conversation Castiel struck up with a neighbor who’d come to observe, that seemed to be standard procedure. “Sight unseen, as-is,” those were the declared terms of the sale for the little foreclosure. Admittedly, all of this was brand-new to Castiel, but the outside of the house seemed fairly well-maintained—how bad could the inside be? He decided the place was likely owned by some elderly person who died without heirs, or went into a nursing home and defaulted on the mortgage. </p><p>After all, the lawn was mowed, the bushes were manicured, and the windows and doors appeared both solid and intact, with a fresh coat of shiny paint on the trim. Castiel had squinted into the afternoon sun, doing his best to peer through the reflective glass and see <em> something </em>of the inside living space, albeit unsuccessfully.</p><p>The house’s exterior was quite appealing, though, if small. Wooden shingle siding colored a cheery yellow, and it was constructed in the Arts and Crafts style that Castiel was entirely fond of seeing around town. The front even featured a delightful porch space with exposed beams and lovely stonework details. Further, the house’s second floor boasted a dormer with a triple window, likely looking out from a loft or single bedroom, and the side addition’s stone facade matched the trimmings on the porch columns perfectly.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Against his better judgment, Castiel found himself absolutely drawn to the little house. He <em> wanted </em> it, wanted to wake up there every morning, to drink coffee on the front porch, to park his bike in the driveway, and to call this place <em> home.  </em></p><p>He knew full well that he was taking a chance by not seeing the inside. On the other hand, Castiel’s mortgage pre-approval was beginning to burn a hole in his pocket. That, combined with the complete <em> failure </em> of any house showings he’d attended thus far to spark even a <em> glimmer </em> of the same level of interest had him feelin, well, a bit <em> crazy</em>.</p><p>So when the bidding started, Castiel took a deep breath and <em> jumped. </em> Jumped in head-first and wound up snagging what he <em> thought </em>was a damn steal of a deal on the place. </p><p>Of course, that was before he learned how damn <em> easy </em> it was for an auction company to put a couple hundred dollars into sprucing up the outside of an otherwise nearly-condemned building with the express purpose of unloading it on an <em> idiot </em>like Castiel. </p><p>Defeated, Castiel slumps on his milk crate with his fist pressing into his cheek and his elbow digging into his thigh. Briefly, he considers what the most pressing project in the place might be, but he becomes overwhelmed with all of the various options well before he can decide. Like he’s done every single day for the last week, he leaves the house without attempting a damn thing. </p><p>Shoving his helmet back on and slinging one leg over the seat of his motorcycle, Castiel rides away into the cold without so much as a backward glance for his wayward purchase. He returns to the warmth and the comparative safety and comfort of his motel cottage with a vast feeling of relief, thankful that the rent here is so ridiculously affordable. His savings should allow him to carry two payments for quite a while, until he comes up with a plan. </p><p>At the very least, Castiel’s impulse buy has provided him with a convenient distraction. If it wasn’t for the house creating some drama in his otherwise extremely dull personal life, he’d have no other choice but to allow <em> Dean </em>and the way the man is already constantly invading his thoughts to factually become the undeniable consummate center of his universe. </p><p>
  <em> Because he’s certainly not.  </em>
</p><p>Once again, that’s Castiel’s story and he’s sticking to it.</p><p>He trudges up the tiny set of steps to his front door and grimaces when he remembers what’s waiting for him on the other side—what <em> tomorrow </em> is and what he still needs to accomplish tonight. It’s a good thing Castiel didn’t spend any additional time wallowing at his new dump, or he’d probably fall asleep and burn the place he actually <em> likes </em>down while waiting.</p><p>Sighing, he keys open the door and walks inside. Now that he’s warm and away from the money pit <em> and </em>facing down his plans for the evening, there’s no use in pretending he isn’t going to think about Dean. </p><p>If he’s being honest, that really is all he does, lately. Ever since that—<em>insanely hot—</em>kiss they shared in Castiel’s office, it’s nearly impossible for Castiel to lie to himself about what it is he wants and his accidental intentions towards Dean. Even still, he <em> does </em> know that they’re unethical, that it <em> can’t </em> be. Dean’s obviously reciprocal feelings aside, this is a line Castiel personally <em> hates </em>himself for crossing and refuses to do so again, no matter how his base desires may dominate his traitorous thoughts.</p><p>The real problem is that Dean has his number now, and no matter what boundaries Castiel may try and set, Dean seems intent on patiently, <em> persistently </em> wearing them down. He innately understands that pushing Castiel isn’t the answer. He seems to instinctively know that giving the <em> illusion </em> he’s respecting Castiel’s limits while quietly continuing to flirt, and smile, and—and—<em>eye fuck </em> Castiel on a regular basis is a <em> much </em> more effective technique. It’s obvious that Dean’s in no rush, that having had a tiny <em> taste </em>he’s now content to wait, secure in his assumption that Castiel is doing the same.</p><p>The frustrating part of all that lies in knowing, of course, that Dean isn’t remotely wrong. Castiel <em> is </em> effectively waiting for him, even if he hasn’t decided what exactly that means. He justifies the holding pattern by telling himself they aren’t actively <em> doing </em> anything wrong, aren’t continuously violating any hard professional limits, and that he <em> will </em>draw any necessary lines and won’t overstep when the time comes.</p><p>Castiel knows in his heart that it’s all a lie. He may not fully understand what lies ahead for him and Dean, may not be willing to <em> live </em> on the other side of that line while Dean is still a prisoner, but his feelings for Dean have long been out of his control. His <em> actions, </em> on the other hand (not to mention his reputation, his license, and his dignity), those are all things he has left. Things that are <em> his </em>to preserve the integrity of.</p><p>In the meantime, getting lost in his head at every available opportunity helps Castiel resist the urge to do something he’ll definitely regret. Thankfully, the material he has to get lost in is very, <em> very </em>satisfying. Who needs real life when fantasies are so good? </p><p>As he’s become entirely used to doing, Castiel proceeds about his planned tasks and his evening routine somewhat rotely. He sinks into a kitchen chair to watch the oven do its job and sips from a chilled glass of wine. All the while, he daydreams. </p><p>
  <em> Dean, looking like a superhero fresh from the battlefield. Dean, standing in the middle of the deserted, gray hall covered in blood and sweat. Dean, his biceps bulging and glistening, his chest heaving from exertion.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That same bicep slipping under Castiel’s grip from the mess of body fluids as he tugged Dean determinedly down the hall. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The competing swells of pride and affection and relief warring for dominion in Castiel’s mind, none of them winning. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The heat of his hand burning into Dean’s shoulder, the energy building and snapping between them—his own inability to keep his eyes from tracking the way Dean’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.  </em>
</p><p>Castiel groans, shoving his glass away and ignoring how the wine jostles and splatters over the edge. He slumps down onto the table, stretching an arm out and resting his head on top quite listlessly. He blinks—an exaggerated, dramatic affair that comes with still more flashes of <em> Dean </em>behind his eyelids.</p><p><em> Dean’s solid weight in his arms, </em> safe <em> and warm and real.  </em></p><p>
  <em> The way Dean’s fingers scrabbled into Castiel’s shirt, digging desperately into his skin. </em>
</p><p>The oven beeps as it reaches temperature. Castiel patently ignores it, staring blankly instead at a missed puddle of batter dirtying the countertop. He sighs and then shivers, the ghost of Dean’s fingers skating down the outside of his arm persisting in his memory. </p><p>Castiel’s never been kissed the way Dean kissed him that day, can hardly imagine that he ever will be again. The combustible mix of fear and worry combined with all the excitement and rushing adrenaline after they <em> won, they actually won—</em>it added a layer of furious energy that amplified the increasingly intense sparks already bursting between them.  </p><p>Both the kiss—<em>the feel of Dean’s mouth pressed against his, the faint tang of blood and sweat whispering over Castiel’s tongue—</em>and the way Dean lingered in his arms after they parted <em> haunt </em> him. The way Dean gentled such a rough, furious gesture into something careful and soft—dragging his lips over the corner of Castiel’s mouth and down to his jaw—how could Castiel <em> not </em>love him? The way Dean pulled back, face so much calmer and eyes soft then, green irises twinkling as his thumb brushed away a smudge of his own blood from Castiel’s cheek.</p><p>It wasn’t just the kiss, either. It was Dean’s <em> trust </em> in him, the way he didn’t think twice before surrendering the knife in his pocket to Castiel’s safekeeping. In that moment, it was impossible to forget that Dean was still a prisoner and a <em> target, </em>now that he was Top Dog. Perhaps more so for who he’s been and who he bested and yet—there he was, turning over weapons that might help keep him safe. </p><p>Castiel had swallowed the lump in his throat before putting away the knife and accompanying Dean to Medical (after changing out of his bloodied shirt, naturally). They’d arrived only to find everyone with an ounce of medical training already occupied in fussing over Crowley. Without thinking, Castiel had offered himself up to assist Dean, pulling the curtain around the second examination bay and only realizing his <em> vast </em>and cosmic mistake in retrospect. </p><p>Dean’s smirk as he shamelessly pulled off his blood-soaked tee was truly one for the ages. The memory of it has never failed to make Castiel smile since, but in the moment, what came next—<em>worse. Much </em>worse.</p><p>The chaos outside their little space raged on—shadows rushing, people yelling and throwing things, Crowley moaning and groaning—but on Castiel and Dean’s side of the curtain, the world was all too still. Dean, with his knowing smile and his shiny, washboard abs—Castiel almost forgot that he had potentially serious wounds that needed tending to. </p><p>In his defense—</p><p>
  <em> Nope, nothing.  </em>
</p><p>Castiel had indulged himself, perhaps a bit more than necessary. Especially once his limited first-aid training allowed him to deduce that Dean’s wounds <em> were </em>entirely superficial—although his stomach and arm would likely require stitches (perhaps glue for his cheek). After sticking his head out and letting a frazzled Tessa know the verdict, Castiel returned and took his sweet time carefully bandaging each injury. </p><p>Dean was quiet as he worked, sitting on the exam table and watching Castiel with open affection and appreciation on his face. He didn’t protest when—after securing three somewhat haphazard pressure dressings—Castiel continued on his mission, studiously wiping as much of the dried and dripping blood and dirt from Dean’s skin as he could. Cleaning Dean’s face and neck was particularly intimate, Dean’s stare as relentless as Castiel’s determination to avoid it.</p><p>He was terribly unsuccessful. Only inches apart for all of that time, eventually, they wound up with their eyes locked once again. </p><p>Even now, Castiel can admit that they likely would have kissed again, if the curtains hadn’t rustled with the prison doctor’s approach. At the very least, Castiel managed to step back and look reasonably professional by the time the man entered. Very smooth, very <em> not </em>like the unethical, borderline-criminal behavior he was considering engaging in.</p><p>The oven’s timer sounds, dragging Castiel unwillingly back to reality. He hoists himself from his chair, checking his project and leaving it to cool on the stovetop while he goes to shower. Even concealed inside his own bathroom, in his own home (where no one will <em> ever </em>see or know what he’s doing) Castiel resists slipping back into his reverie. Using those memories of Dean to satisfy his (increasingly demanding by the day) lizard brain feels gross and wrong, though Castiel doubts very much that Dean would mind. </p><p>Naturally, <em> that </em> thought sends his own wandering towards what <em> Dean </em> might be doing in his own shower and—<em>No, no, no, </em> Castiel chastises his brain. Angry at his apparent inability to control his impulses, he turns the water spigot to cold and—<em>hollering</em>—suffers through the rest of his <em> very </em>quick shower in freezing agony.</p><p>Castiel crawls still-wet and grumbling into his (admittedly, very lovely) bed, in his tiny rental cottage, in a town he’s still essentially a stranger in, and misses a man he has no business even thinking about. </p><p>Dean’s life may be headed onward and upward, but Castiel is <em>floundering.  </em></p><p>***</p><p>Being a well-behaved Top Dog who manages to show respect for the administration while genuinely advocating for the inmates <em> and </em> keeping them in line has its perks. Castiel <em> barely </em> has to twist Naomi’s arm to get her to approve a little extra visitation for Dean on his birthday, and he can tell that her token protests are mostly performative. Less so when Castiel requests permission to bring a few small candles and a lighter into the otherwise highly-secured room, but still. When all is said and done—and after a no-nonsense recounting of both Dean’s sufferings <em> and </em>his good deeds (plus the promise to hand-deliver a slice of leftover cake)—Naomi relents on that, too. </p><p>The Warden’s one condition on allowing the candles includes clearing the Visitation Center of all other inmates and guests first. That works out, since it allows for Dean’s extra time with his family to remain more or less on the down-low. Never a bad thing when it comes to volatile prisoners invested in the appearance of equal treatment and fairness. No such thing, in Castiel’s experience—and he believes they know that—but denial is a powerful, important drug in prison. </p><p>Once the other scheduled visits have concluded and the room is both emptied and checked per protocol, Castiel tells Garth to bring Dean’s people through security. He radios for Donna to grab Dean from the yard—under the pretense of a meeting with the Warden—and to escort him in. Her crackly but cheery, “You betcha, Sierra Four, be up in a jiffy!” makes Castiel smile. </p><p>As everything comes together, Castiel feels a rush of excitement he hasn’t felt in <em> years. </em> Not since he was fresh out of school and dating Balthazar. For all of his faults, his ex was grateful, and he <em> loved </em> surprises, and Castiel loved his energy. Balthazar had been <em> fun </em> and spontaneous, fresh and interesting—he was everything Castiel wasn’t—and that was exciting, in and of itself. He brought out something new in Castiel, a side of him he might never have discovered otherwise. </p><p>He was the reason Castiel learned to ride a motorcycle, why he rides one today.</p><p>In the end, the two of them just weren’t right for each other. There was nothing tragic about their eventual separation, but Castiel never stumbled upon another relationship that <em> distracted </em>him from work quite in the way Bal did again. After they called it quits, he threw himself more fully into his job than ever before. In retrospect, that was likely when being a prison psychologist transformed from something he did to earn money into Castiel’s entire life, his identity.</p><p>That was also right around when he met Cain.</p><p>And now? Perhaps these revelations and <em> feelings </em> should concern Castiel more than they do, considering all the implications. The thing is, though, Castiel finds that when he <em> really </em> sits down and thinks about it, tries his level best to feel <em> guilt </em>or shame towards the blossoming feelings he has regarding Dean, the repeat outcome is the same.</p><p>He doesn’t care. </p><p>All of these shades of gray—all of these impossible decisions, the way <em> everyone </em> but Castiel gets to step outside the box and bend the rules, but <em> he’s </em> supposed to be above it in every single way? Castiel’s the last one to put himself first and the first to hang himself out to dry. Denial and self-flagellation are practically a way of life at this point, they’re what he was always taught he <em> needed, </em>to balance his overreaching empathy and too-big heart. </p><p>But caring about Dean—<em>loving </em> Dean—is a shade of gray too, isn’t it? Castiel has certainly begun to question—<em>who </em> draws the line, and where? Why is what he did <em> for </em> Dean and with Cain on the “morally justifiable” side but potentially allowing himself <em> happiness </em> is not? To be fair, that’s the one thing that’s <em> not </em>in question—receiving the affection that Dean so clearly reciprocates for him would make Castiel the happiest man in the world.</p><p>So <em> why </em> is he the one labeling it as the <em> one thing </em>he cannot have? </p><p>
  <em> Who draws that line?  </em>
</p><p>As he removes the saran wrap from the cake he baked the night prior and frosted in the pre-dawn gloom this morning, Castiel knows he’s staring the answer in the face. Knows in his heart that he’s already drawn it, somewhere several steps behind him, in a layer of buttercream, so to speak. He pushes three small wax candles down into the squishy top layer—arranging them just so—and try as he might, can’t feel a single regret. </p><p>When Castiel looks up, a lanky, floppy-haired young man is crossing the room towards him. Trailing just slightly behind is an older, greying man with a shorter, kind-looking, brown-haired woman on his arm. Castiel smiles and lifts a hand in greeting, knowing that the young man must be Sam, and the older couple Dean’s “Uncle” Bobby and his wife. Dean is forever fondly mocking his brother’s height and his hair, and Castiel stifles a laugh at the realization that he wasn’t exaggerating.</p><p>Sam is so tall that he must have had to duck his way through the metal detectors—if he’d known, Castiel would have filmed it. Dean doesn’t laugh <em> nearly </em>enough these days. </p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m going to leave you all alone,” he says by way of greeting, once Dean’s family steps close enough. “Oh—before I forget.” Castiel reaches into his pocket and withdraws the lighter, handing it over to Sam. “For the—the candles. If you need anything, I’ll just—I’ll be at the reception desk.” </p><p>Sam opens his mouth to reply, but he’s interrupted by Garth. The slight guard appears at Sam’s side, handing over a shiny, foil-wrapped package that’s open on one side. “You’re all set,” he tells Sam, flashing a kind grin before tipping his chin at Castiel. “Just checking for contraband. Nothing, of course, just a copy of Slaughterhouse Five.” </p><p>“Dean will love that,” Castiel says excitedly. “He’s been complaining about the library’s lack of Vonnegut rather endlessly.” He shrugs, semi-apologetic, not that he has any recourse to the reading material supplied to the prison. “The books are donated. We don’t control the selection, unfortunately, although I’ve been thinking of ‘donating’ some of his favorites—just to hear the end of it.” </p><p>“That’s really nice of you,” Sam says sincerely. </p><p>“Dean deserves it,” Castiel replies, without hesitation. He motions towards the desk. “Dean will be in momentarily. I’ll just—”</p><p>“Wait,” Sam calls out, as he turns away. “You’re uh, Castiel, right? You’re the doctor Dean’s always talking about? The one that’s helping with his plea deal?” </p><p>Reluctantly, Castiel turns back around. This isn’t his place—he didn’t come here to infringe on Dean’s family time, or insert himself into their dynamics. Still, Sam seems entirely kind and polite, and there’s no one in the world more important to Dean. Therefore, Castiel nods and forces what he hopes is a normal-looking (not guilty, not secretly-lusting-after-your-brother) smile. “Yes,” he says. “That’s me.” </p><p>Without asking anything further, Sam glances around before grabbing another chair and dragging it over to the table where four (plus the cake and some disposable plates and flatware) are already set up. “Well you gotta join us, then. Dean won’t ever shut up about you, he definitely wants to hang. Trust me, every time I get him on the phone, all I hear is ‘Cas this,’ and ‘Cas that.’ He’s really lucky to have you, man.” </p><p>“This is a family affair, I shouldn’t—”</p><p>The older man, presumably Bobby, snorts. “Family,” he repeats. “You’re damn right. And if you haven’t noticed, we’re a pretty ragtag bunch as it is.” He puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder and widens his eyes at Castiel meaningfully. “We have a saying in this clan, and it’s ‘family don’t end in blood,’ you hear me? Means you choose your people, and let me tell you, son, Sam’s not the only one Dean’s made perfectly clear to that he’s chosen you. So, sit yer ass down. You’re in this mess whether you wanna be or not.” </p><p>Still somewhat wary, Castiel hesitates, though he senses something in Bobby’s tone. There’s more to what he’s saying than the words coming out of his mouth. Between that and Sam’s knowing look, his raised eyebrow—somehow, Castiel suspects they know much more than they’re letting on. About<em> what, </em>exactly, he has no idea. </p><p>“You did bake him a cake,” Sam points out, as (flushing), Castiel curls a hand around the back of his seat. </p><p>Just then, the door leading in from admin beeps and opens, revealing Donna escorting a completely bewildered Dean. If nothing else, Castiel would never trade being allowed to experience firsthand the way Dean’s entire <em> countenance </em>changes when he discovers Sam. His eyes light up in a way that brightens his entire face, makes him look a full five years younger. </p><p>“Sammy?” </p><p>Dean’s across the room and hugging his brother before anyone can tell him to stop. “Thirty seconds per hug, Winchester,” Garth calls from behind the counter. He’s already engrossed in his goat magazine, though, and something tells Castiel that the touching rules won’t be enforced today. </p><p>There are hugs all around as Castiel learns that Bobby’s wife’s name is Ellen and that Dean is clearly as fond of her as he is of his surrogate uncle. Once again, he tries his best to slip quietly away, but the collective protest that erupts in response has him sitting down before he entirely realizes what’s happened. </p><p>As Sam lights the candles on the cake, beneath the table Dean’s hand skates carefully over the edge of Castiel’s knee. The tips of Dean’s fingers touch the pads of his own where they drop over the side of his leg and it makes Castiel shiver. From the way Dean’s attention stays trained on his family, you’d never know what was occurring below, where no one can see. Much as he’s remiss to admit the truth, it means something to Castiel that Dean <em> wants </em>him there, that he’s doing what he can to show it. </p><p>Once again, Castiel finds himself thinking that he <em> should </em>feel worse, or at the very least, guilty. </p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>The four of them sing “Happy Birthday” in four—equally terrible—off-key tones and with Bobby scowling most of the way through. They eat slices of cake and laugh and Dean opens his singular, modest present with a grateful shout of glee. Dean steals an additional hug from Sam and no one says a thing about it. Most importantly, everyone talks about Dean’s future like it’s coming, like it <em> exists. </em></p><p>Castiel’s never seen Dean shine so brightly. </p><p>There’s a serious moment towards the end of the visit where Dean admits that he thought he might have driven his family away for good, and everyone sobers up quickly. Sensing that he truly <em> is </em>intruding at that point, Castiel steps away to allow the fractured little family to make some amends. As he moves towards the registration desk, he can’t help but hear Dean sniffle and the subsequent ruffle of Sam’s clothing as he slides over into Castiel’s vacated seat. </p><p>“We know a lot more than you think,” is all Sam says, but his words have Castiel fighting to not visibly hold his breath in anticipation (or worse, return to the table and cut Sam off). He can’t very well do any of that without arousing suspicion. All he <em> can </em>do is hope that whatever Sam thinks he knows, it’s enough to keep him quiet in front of Garth (and the cameras). </p><p>Castiel breathes out a sigh of relief when he hears Bobby follow with a gruff grunt and a change of subject. “Dean, no one’s angry at you,” he says. “We’re <em> worried </em>about you, ya idjit.” That makes Dean laugh, and nothing more is said about it.</p><p>***</p><p>It’s not all cake and presents and perks, being Top Dog. As the weeks go by, Castiel can see the shine wear off as the stress of the job begins to take its toll on Dean. The happy, motivated cloud that’s been buoying him along, the sun that’s been following the man everywhere he goes, begins to dim. The edges of Dean’s smile start to fray, though he hides the change as best as he possibly can.</p><p>Castiel understands—not only does Dean loathe the idea of appearing weak or vulnerable to the other inmates, he has the additional burden of feeling like he can’t be <em> ungrateful, </em>either.</p><p>After all, his current circumstances are far and away superior to any Dean could have dreamed of living scarcely a month prior. Where once he thought he’d end his life subjugated and alone in the Bay, likely murdered in his sleep or worse, now, Dean feels he has no right to complain. </p><p>Which is ridiculous, of course, but Dean’s bullheadedness about the whole thing is a <em> fact. </em></p><p>And it’s stifling their therapy sessions. </p><p>These days, Castiel feels like all they do is skirt around anything even remotely emotional or important. His office <em> used </em> to be a place of refuge, a true safe space that Dean had learned to trust and take advantage of having access to. Now? Most days, Castiel feels like they’re starting from scratch, at least when it comes to Dean’s willingness to be <em> vulnerable.  </em></p><p>They haven’t broached any topic of substance in at least two weeks. Dean’s tendency to dissociate and why—that entire issue has been completely tabled. The events of the turning-point night in H1 with Alfie? Dean won’t touch it. Even whatever is blossoming between <em> them—</em>Castiel hasn’t needed to set boundaries or limits, because Dean hasn’t pressed, hasn’t tried to escalate things physically, or even attempted to discuss their situation at <em> all</em>.</p><p>Predictably, Dean’s excuse is that he has too much on his mind trying to live up to Top Dog expectations—both from the brass and the other inmates—to “waste” his time with Castiel “blubbering about [his] bullshit”. Castiel can hardly call him on that, either, it’s not <em> exactly </em> untrue. Dean <em> does </em>have a lot to live up to, a lot to prove. Either way, in his experience, pushing Dean to be emotionally vulnerable is pointless. It rarely works out and has an almost admirably predictable record of backfiring. </p><p>Castiel will wait. He can be patient. </p><p>In the meantime, two afternoons per week like clockwork, they meet and discuss the nitty-gritty of Dean’s day-to-day. Things that are nearly procedural in how obvious and dull they are, but if that’s what Dean wants and needs, it’s what Castiel will provide. Today is no exception.</p><p>Dean is in his usual spot on the couch, later-afternoon sun-glare haloing his head. Even in a hoodie and sweatpants, fresh from a workout, he looks—<em>he always looks—</em>positively divine. If there was a God, Castiel believes the session itself would be enough to distract him, but alas. Thanks to the less-than-scintillating nature of their conversation, Castiel is having more trouble than usual ignoring the innate distraction that is <em> Dean</em>. In an effort to recalibrate, he focuses on the man’s body language, instead, internally scolding himself for being a terrible, terrible person.</p><p>It works—somewhat. Dean’s certainly invested in appearing a particular way, and he knows Castiel well enough to be working hard to fool him.</p><p>To the casual eye, Dean would likely appear completely relaxed and at home. Practically <em> lounging </em>on the cushions, taking up more than half of the couch’s width for absolutely no reason, Dean’s left arm drapes across the back and his legs are spread wide. Yes, an observer who doesn’t know Dean very well would be right to interpret that stance as “easy,” perhaps even carefree.  </p><p>Castiel, on the other hand, knows better. He clocks the way the fingers of Dean’s right hand clutch at his knee, alternately between digging into the bone and picking at the fabric of his pants. He notices the bitten-off scab decorating the middle of Dean’s bottom lip, welling blood that Dean tries to lick away before it can become obvious. Most subtle of all, he notices the barely-there tick of Dean’s right eye, twitching whenever something particularly stressful is mentioned. </p><p>“Crowley,” Castiel says, just to test it. Dean’s eye twitches, and Castiel makes a note on his pad. It’s the first useful thing he’s written all session.</p><p>“What? What’s wrong with Crowley?” </p><p>“Nothing,” Castiel replies placidly, returning to the sketch of a cat he’s started in the corner of his current page. “Just providing you an update.”</p><p>Dean nods tersely. “Still behaving himself in AdSeg?” </p><p>With a half-hearted shrug, Castiel struggles not to make a face. “I believe that he’s content there,” he replies evasively. “He knows he wouldn’t last a day in General. There’s no reason for him to act out and risk becoming more trouble than he’s worth.” </p><p>Dean winces. “But his guards—”</p><p>“Have all been carefully vetted, which you know. Only the officers Naomi and I have personally determined that we can trust have direct access to him. The incorruptible. The Donna and Garths of the world, if you will.” Castiel pauses but jumps to continue as Dean’s mouth opens yet again to argue. They’ve already had this back and forth at least three times (this week). “<em>No, </em> you should not interpret that statement as me suggesting there exists concern for continued infiltration. If it helps, I believe that any guards who <em> were </em>Crowley’s and who are not named Alastair were likely opportunists, not loyalists. They’d likely do the same for you, if you offered them money.” </p><p>“Comforting,” Dean says, clearly unconvinced. “Alastair and Meg?”</p><p>“Still in the wind,” Castiel tells him, and the regret in his voice isn’t remotely manufactured.</p><p>“Fine,” Dean replies shortly, chewing on his abused lip. “Then tell me about the busts.” </p><p>Castiel recites the information Dean’s requesting in an intentionally rote monotone. “Naomi intercepted a parcel coming in through the kitchen with heroin, and we’ve changed the method used to scan the mail—several letters dipped in liquid drugs and masked with perfume were detected and removed. Decidedly related, there have been no overdoses in the past two weeks. Naomi is very pleased.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean snaps, avoiding eye contact. “So, the programs she owes me—”</p><p>“They’re coming,” Castiel replies patiently. “These things take time. The greenhouse overhaul has been approved by the board, so long as the work is done by the inmates.”</p><p>“No problem,” Dean butts in. “Benny’s your guy. He used to work construction, before.”</p><p>“I think the greenhouse will be a wonderful addition to the yard offerings,” Castiel endeavors, watching as Dean’s face softens. “Gardening can be very soothing, and it’s a nice distraction, a good, productive way to pass the time.” Dean nods and looks down, so Castiel clears his throat, continuing on. “The expanded collegiate offerings were a no-brainer, and Charlie was happy to take on a couple of the classes relevant to her interests. Naomi is looking into partnering with the local community college—we’ll have to see what comes of that.”</p><p>“And the kitchen crew?”</p><p>Swallowing his smart comment, Castiel (again, patiently) nods his affirmation. “There was plenty of interest, although—as you’re already aware—nepotism won in the end. Jesse and Cesar will take over just as soon as we put them and their chosen team through ServSafe.” Castiel taps his pen against the pad, raising his eyebrows, an obvious challenge. “Anything else?” </p><p>To Castiel’s surprise, Dean exhales roughly and slumps further back into the cushions, letting his head drop so that he’s staring up at the ceiling. “You think I’m being difficult.” It’s not a question.</p><p>“No,” Castiel replies carefully. “I respect greatly what you’re trying to do, and the thus-far incredible job you’ve done doing it. I simply—”</p><p>“You wanna talk about me.” </p><p>“Of course,” Castiel say simply. “I always want to talk about you.” </p><p>That gets Dean to crack a smile, dragging his gaze from the ceiling to glance first at the open spot on the couch next to him, and then at Castiel. “But you won’t come sit with me.” That is also not a question, so Castiel doesn’t answer, opting to give Dean a knowing smile instead. This is progress, after all.</p><p>“News on my court date?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Castiel replies softly. “Any day, though. After Cain took over with the Knights, the world’s least surprising shakup occurred at the courthouse in the County Seat. Every department—from the City Police to the District Attorney’s office—suffered from a rash of sudden resignations and relocations. <em> Very </em> curious, indeed. Regardless, the public defender both you and Alfie were reassigned to in the end <em> is </em>actually an underpaid, overworked PD who’s singlemost interest is doing his time and moving on from this starter job as quickly as possible.” </p><p>Dean snorts.</p><p>“That’s very fortunate for you two,” Castiel continues, ignoring him, even though Dean knows most of this already. “He’s entirely invested in garnering plea deals and saving what little face the office is able to save at this point. You know, down the road, you could probably sue.” There’s a thought. Castiel tips his head to the side, considering it.</p><p>“I’m not gonna sue, Cas,” Dean retorts, shaking his head. “You know, I did—<em>technically—</em>do the crime. Weird to think, but I’d be damn happy with time served and probation. I’ll never not think about how much worse it could’ve been.” </p><p>It’s Castiel’s turn to sigh. “Someday,” he says, “I’ll convince you to dream bigger.” </p><p>Dean laughs softly, turning his head to stare Castiel down, gaze challenging and intense. It’s the most direct attention Castiel’s garnered from him in weeks. “I dream plenty big these days,” he says, his meaning plain.</p><p>Castiel inhales sharply, and <em> damn it, when </em>will he learn to control his reactions to Dean simply existing? He’s at a loss for words to reply, but thankfully, Dean breaks first, letting him off the hook. </p><p>“Maybe someday you’ll let yourself dream at all.”</p><p>***</p><p>Much later, after the sun has sunk down into the ocean and Castiel is all but packed up for the night, there comes a knock at his door. </p><p>“Come in,” Castiel calls out, barely looking up from his laptop screen. He’s currently doing the most important task his job entails—filling out his timesheet. Ridiculous, considering he’s salaried and practically lives at the prison as of late, but still required. The door beeps and swings open.</p><p>“Castiel,” Naomi greets him, still formal as ever, despite the fact that they’ve become quite close. Both personally and professionally, and Castiel realizes with somewhat of a start that if anyone asked, he’d readily describe her as a <em> friend. </em> A <em> good </em>friend, at that. If he had somewhere decent to call home, he might even consider asking Naomi over for some wine or—or whatever it is adult friends do these days, Castiel really wouldn’t know.</p><p>“What brings you to the wrong side of the tracks at this time of night?” he asks airily, closing up his laptop and stuffing it into his bag. Naomi half-smiles, stepping forward and handing over two thin, paper-clipped stacks of very official-looking documents. Castiel recognizes the header and the addressing immediately—these are summons.</p><p>Flipping through both of them quickly, Castiel glances up, thrilled. “Court dates,” he exclaims, unable to hide his relief. “For Alfie and Dean. Finally.” </p><p>Naomi looks a lot less excited than he feels as she turns on her heel and flops (uncharacteristically loosely) into one of his chairs. “And just when things were starting to go so well for us,” she remarks dryly. Castiel shoots her what he hopes reads as a concerned look, and she waves him off. “Oh, don’t worry,” she continues with a sigh. “Top Dogs have always come and gone. I expect Lafitte will step up in Winchester’s absence, we’ll be just fine.” She pauses, eyeing up Castiel in that piercing way of hers, smirking a little. “You’ll need a new pet project, though. Wonder what that will be?” </p><p>Before Castiel can formulate a coherent thought for a reply, Naomi is up out of her seat and halfway across the room. “Drinks tomorrow night,” she calls over her shoulder. “Perhaps at the new wine bar in town? We deserve it.” </p><p>“We do,” Castiel echoes faintly. He’s still staring down at the documents in his hand, processing the entire encounter as the door clicks closed behind his boss. Glancing between the papers and his waiting helmet and coat, it’s not a tough decision at all to make. The units are already locked down for the night, so he’ll have to make do with a through-the-bars visit, but both Dean and Alfie deserve to know now.</p><p>Castiel grabs his radio and clips it to his belt before heading down the hall towards H2—he has good news to deliver. </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: A long-awaited and hard-earned release, plus a surprise or two along the way. Dean and Castiel discover that not everything has to be hard. The “comfort” part of the hurt/comfort tag starts to kick in, in a big way.</p><p>...this sounds like nothing but a bunch of terrible double-entendres and I swear, it’s not. If you've stuck with me this far though, THANK YOU, and I'm about to reward you in a big way, very soon &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>p.s. do you like cas' house?! well, the outside, anyway...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>It is somewhat anticlimactic, though. Being the middle of the afternoon, shift change isn’t for a while, and it’s not a visitation day, so no one is around. The parking lot is only a quarter-full of cars and otherwise empty of signs of life—at least, if Dean doesn’t count the squirrel that darts across a handful of spaces before squeezing back out through the fence.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Jailbreak, he thinks, laughing to himself.</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There’s a Harry Potter reference in here. Pls don’t take that as approval of TERFs. Fuck TERFs. </p><p>Warnings (nothing major): <br/>—&gt;courthouse setting, mention of non-sexy handcuffs/restraints<br/>—&gt;allusions to/mentions of anxiety and dissociation (Dean doesn't necessarily realize or want to realize that he's still dissociating. He actually tells Cas he isn't).<br/>—&gt;they gon’ kiss again (if you are surprised by this, idk how to help, friend)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The County Courthouse feels different than it did the last time Dean was here. The place has haunted his dreams for months now—full of long shadows and laughing, scheming lawyers, Alastair’s presence at his back, holding the keys to cuffs that Dean just <em> knew </em> would never come off. In both his nightmares and his blurry memories of the real world, the courthouse felt <em> ominous. </em> All the mental imagery was the same—dark, with almost no windows, no link to the outside world to be seen. </p><p>As he sits on one of the long, wooden benches lining the first floor hallway, Dean can admit that he <em> might </em> have overblown the visual terror of the place—just a bit. With Alfie by his side and a brand-new, bumbling, and <em> clearly </em>incompetent young lawyer at their beck and call, things somehow feel far much less dire.</p><p>It helps that the courthouse’s main drag has direct sightlines to the metal detectors and the multiple glass doors beyond, the street loud and busy right on the other side. Even better, the space itself is airy and sunny, with closely spaced windows that span the better part of the height of the twenty-foot walls. </p><p>Bright afternoon light streams through, casting hopeful patterns all down the length of the hall. The corner of the closest one spills cheekily over the toe of Dean’s dress shoe, warm and reassuring. Nervous and awkward, Dean drags his attention away from the windows, smoothing the sweaty palms of his handcuffed hands down the thighs of his too-big suit. It’s the very same one he wore to court for his arraignment, the outfit he was wearing the first time he set foot inside the Bay. </p><p>Interestingly, with the muscle Dean’s put on since, it fits slightly better. Not great, though. Dean’s still convinced he looks like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes (<em>the irony)</em>. Not of any consolation, Alfie sitting next to him almost definitely looks worse. The kid only ended up locked away in prison because he was trying to provide for a family as broke as Dean’s worst days. They aren’t exactly the kind of people who have spare suits clogging up the closet. </p><p>No, the two-piece currently hanging loose off of Alfie’s shoulders is a loaner from <em> Cas. </em> Now, Dean is perfectly aware that he should not be jealous of someone needing to borrow a suit (especially one that fits like hell) for <em> court</em>, but here he is. If nothing else, it’s a decent distraction, though—the way he’s struggling not to lean over and casually catch a whiff of Cas’ scent. </p><p>He controls himself. That’s unbelievably freaking weird, first of all. Not to mention, after everything Alfie’s been through, it would probably send the poor guy over the edge. </p><p>So Dean sits. <em> Patiently. </em>With his handcuffs jangling every time he bounces his leg or fidgets with the buttons on his jacket, which is frequently. Every couple of minutes or so, he darts a glance at the closed doors leading to Courtroom 3A, wondering what the hell is going on inside.</p><p>“Do you think it’s good or bad that it’s taking so long?” Alfie’s voice is barely above a whisper, and his expression as he looks over at Dean is pleading. It has Dean swallowing hard and rethinking the sharp retort threatening to roll off the tip of his tongue.</p><p>“Dunno,” he says honestly, offering Alfie a half-shrug. “Wish I did.” They’d been in before the judge earlier—both of them—but their time inside the actual courtroom was short. Barely enough for Dean to get any sort of read on the personality of their (brand-new) judge, or for any kind of regret related to <em> not </em>allowing Sam to come today to sink in.</p><p>Then again, “allow” is a strong word—admittedly, Dean <em> might </em>have given Sam the wrong date so that he and Bobby and Ellen wouldn’t show up and waste their time. Aside from the inevitable humiliation, they’d almost definitely learn more about what Dean was in for than he has any desire for them to, so, this is for the best.</p><p>It has been kind of lonely, though. Riding in the jostling transport van with Garth babbling cheerily about nonsense on the bench across from him and Alfie, Dean mostly stared quietly out the rear window. Back when this day was going to be a <em> trial, </em>Cas would’ve been here. Cas would’ve testified, would’ve probably sat right next to him on this very bench.</p><p>Cas, who knows Dean’s darkest secrets and for some godforsaken reason likes him anyway—Cas wasn’t needed in person for a plea deal, so he’s not here, and that’s that. </p><p>Secretly, Dean wishes he was. Maybe Cas could explain why the judge kicked him and Alfie out to talk to their lawyer and the prosecuting attorney alone. Dean chews his nails and <em> tries </em>not to worry. He thinks about all of the conversations he and Cas have had about this very thing—reassures himself that it all seems to be going as planned. </p><p>Before he can go too deeply down the rabbit hole of his mind once again, the heavy wooden door to Courtroom 3A bangs open. Out shuffles the dorky, disheveled guy that’s playing the part of savior for Dean and Alfie today, arms laden down with file folders and loose papers, a fresh set of documents piled on top. </p><p>Forgetting himself, Dean jumps to his feet. He nearly sends himself sprawling to the floor—courtesy of the cuffs around his ankles—but Garth grabs his bicep just in time. Dean’s rescue comes at the expense of Garth’s new issue of <em> Goats, Etc </em>magazine, but Garth just scoops it up off the floor and tucks it folded into his back pocket, unbothered. Mumbling a distracted word of thanks, Dean turns to the attorney while Alfie looks on, worried and expectant.</p><p><em> “Well?” </em>Dean demands. </p><p>***</p><p>
  <em> One Week Prior </em>
</p><p>“I can’t believe we’re really talking about this,” Dean says, in abject disbelief. He scrubs both hands over his face and shakes his head. Slapping his own cheek, Dean grins across the room to where Cas is digging in the top drawer of his desk for—something—if he said, Dean wasn’t paying attention. “Cas,” he barks, demanding his friend’s attention somewhat petulantly. “I said, I <em> can’t </em>believe we’re talking about this!” </p><p>“That’s because we’re not,” Castiel retorts, extracting a thin envelope before rounding the desk and flopping down in his “I’m the therapist and maintaining respectable distance means I don’t want to fuck my patient,” chair. Dean’s thinking about making it a label, but earlier this week Cas broke out the ugly sweaters again and he’s not <em> actually </em>trying to drive the guy away.</p><p>“The hell we aren’t.”</p><p>“I was being literal. We haven’t discussed anything of <em> real </em>importance related to your release.” Cas crosses one leg over the other and raises his eyebrows in challenge. His writing hand rests casually on that ever-present legal pad, and distantly, Dean wonders what hanging out with Cas would be like with all the stupid psychoanalyzing banned for good.</p><p><em> Eh, </em> he thinks, remembering all the times he and Cas used their sessions to play games or intentionally pressed pause on talking shop. Even then, Cas nearly always kept staring him down, looking straight through to his soul. Acting like he wanted to carve Dean open and see what made him tick—but like, in a not-terrifying (<em>no banjos playing in the background</em>) way. </p><p><em> Seems like a built-in feature, </em> he decides<em>. </em> Weirdly, Dean doesn’t mind that, either. He just... <em> likes </em> Cas, wants to know more about what makes <em> him </em>tick. Maybe talk a hell of a lot less about himself.</p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean replies. He flashes the smile he knows Cas is a sucker for to distract him into blushing and scribbling nonsense onto his pad for a minute. Dean uses the reprieve to suck in a deep breath and figure out what the friggin’ heck he was saying—<em>oh right.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He’s getting out. </em>
</p><p>“Details, schmetails,” he says breezily, waving a careless hand in Castiel’s direction. “That shit’ll work itself out, always does.”</p><p>“You don’t need to couch your fears and insecurities with humor and false bravado,” Castiel replies shortly, without so much as glancing up.</p><p>
  <em> Ouch. Nail on the head, Cas. Karma’s a bitch. </em>
</p><p>He does lift his head then, blue eyes sharp and sincere. “Not here. Not with me.” </p><p>A kowtowed Dean sighs and relents, nodding as he sinks back into the couch a little. He stops picking at his scrub pants and rolls his shoulders to release the tension. “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t done the—the zoning out thing in almost a month.” </p><p>Cas’ face brightens. “That’s remarkable, Dean. Have you noticed any increased anxiety or difficulty dealing with people and your surroundings related to that change?”</p><p>Squirming a little, Dean shakes his head. It makes him uncomfortable as hell to talk about himself like a goddamn head case to <em> Cas, </em> but on the other hand, Cas has never judged him. About <em> anything, </em> never mind Dean’s <em> totally </em> legitimate coping methods. Cas is the guy who got him <em> here, </em> where he is today, practically a free man.</p><p>Still, getting the hell out of this shithole and finding a therapist who <em> isn’t </em>also a person he’s harboring some freakishly intense feelings for sounds pretty damn awesome. In the meantime...</p><p>“Nah,” Dean replies, somewhat stilted. “Well, maybe. Uh, at night.” </p><p>Cas stops writing to peer up at him. His gaze is concerned but not pitying, and Dean loves him for not treating him like the loser he is. “Nightmares? Are they more frequent?” </p><p>Dean shrugs. “More vivid, anyway.” </p><p>Nodding in understanding, Castiel scribbles a short note. “On the outside, you might think about speaking to a psychiatrist about some anxiety medication. It’s just a thought, and completely your choice, but perhaps something to consider.” Dean’s relieved when Cas blows right on down the road, not lingering to dwell on the subject.</p><p>“Speaking of which, I imagine that your conditional release will include mandatory therapy. I’ve compiled a list of practices in the city, we can go through the options together. There are several reputable offices that are full-service—they offer talk therapy and medication services and—what?” Castiel cuts himself off when he sees Dean make a face at the word, “city.”</p><p>“Uh,” Dean starts, scratching at the nape of his neck before letting his arm drop to rest on the back of the couch. “I was thinking of sticking around here, actually.” He can’t bring himself to check Cas’ reaction, staring intently at the coffee table in front of him instead. His empty mug mocks him in return.</p><p>“Oh?” Cas’ reply is unreadable, so Dean soldiers on.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says casually. “I can’t—the city ain’t got nothin’ to offer me, Cas. If I went back, all the shit Crowley put me through would be, you know, smack in my face, all the damn time. Truth? I’m not sure I wouldn’t fall right into my old habits. It’d be easy, all my clients are still there, they’d probably be psyched to see me.” Dean scuffs his toe on the carpet, unnerved by Cas’ persistent silence but unable to look up just yet.</p><p>He continues, “And then there’s Sam. The kid doesn’t deserve to have me hanging around, taking up space, getting in his way. After everything—Bobby doesn’t have the room and Sammy would feel obligated to take me in. I can’t put that on him. Best thing to do is stay away, try and create my own life. Show Sam—show him I can be someone that he can be proud of, after all.” Taking a deep breath, Dean rushes on, “Plus, I’ve heard this area can be kind of affordable, if you’re willing to live in a shithole, and I ain’t picky ‘bout where I lay my head.”</p><p><em> Finally, </em> he risks a glance in Cas’ direction, and finds him practically freaking <em> glowing. </em> God, the guy is bad at hiding his feelings. To his credit, Cas schools his features quickly, toning the raging sunshine down to a quiet smile and some <em> very </em>fond eye crinkles directed at Dean.</p><p>“There’s a highly-rated wellness center right in town, only a street over from the boardwalk. I’ll have your records sent, if you like.” </p><p>“That’d be great, Cas.”</p><p>“Also, if I may make a suggestion—I myself have been staying at a motel while I figure out more permanent arrangements. It’s inexpensive, and they have rooms that are even cheaper than what I rent. Clean, friendly, accessible to the town center and the beach.” </p><p>“You sayin’ you wanna be my neighbor, Cas?” Dean teases, and it has the desired effect. Cas’ smile widens and he ducks his head, tapping his pen on the side of his pad.</p><p>“I’m just trying to be helpful, Dean.” He clears his throat. “This is an excellent time to look for work locally, as well. Things are opening up for spring, there are many seasonal and permanent jobs available. You could perhaps explore more than one thing, see what you enjoy.”</p><p>Dean shifts on the couch to face Cas more fully, imagining himself walking the touristy streets of the shore town he’s only seen via Google. He already feels like a damn outsider, but fuck it. No one <em> really </em>belongs anywhere, anyway. “I’ve kinda always wanted to be a bartender,” he admits.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Yeah. Back when I was working for Crowley, I got to know the ones at my regular haunt. Sometimes I’d jump behind the bar when they went on break or if the night was really busy.” Dean shakes his head. “Feels kinda stupid to admit, when you look at it from this side of things, feels like I had a shit ton of outs I just didn’t take.” Dean’s quiet for a moment and then lifts a hand, letting it smack back down on his thigh. “Oh well, right? Hey, maybe there’s a garage that’d give me a shot.” </p><p>“I’m sure there is,” Castiel replies encouragingly. “Either way, I have something that will get you started. It’s—well, I believe it’s a thank you, of sorts.” He flicks a thumb over the envelope in his hand, the one he pulled from his desk earlier. Hesitating for a second, he holds it out towards Dean. “And a parting gift. From Cain.” </p><p>“Parting gift?” Dean narrows his eyes at Castiel skeptically, but accepts the envelope anyway. He tears it open, carefully extracting the contents as if they might explode. Like he’s worried simply touching them will bind him to Cain in a way he’s been <em> so </em> conscientious—so <em> lucky—</em>to avoid, thus far. He looks down. “This is a bank account. This is—<em>my </em>bank account, but those ain’t my dollars and cents.” </p><p>Panic must show on Dean’s face, because Castiel holds up a cautioning hand before gesturing to the papers Dean is holding. “Read the letter,” he says, voice steady.</p><p>Heaving a sigh, Dean flips past the terrifyingly <em> stable- </em> looking numbers—that don’t remotely reflect the negative balance his account <em> should </em>have—to a typed note bringing up the rear of the packet. “Hoo boy,” he says, scanning the page and wondering if the out-of-body sensation he’s currently experiencing counts as dissociation.</p><p><em> Nah, </em>he decides, because he’s got enough going on without ruining his sweet recovery streak.</p><p>Taking in the words on the page, the overwhelming feeling plaguing Dean’s mind is far more “worry” than the “pleased surprise” he suspects Cain was shooting for. According to the letter, part of Cain’s takeover involved a shitload (paraphrased) of forensic accounting (<em>Dean has so many fucking questions)</em>, and subsequent (Cain’s words) “restitution”. The money in Dean’s account apparently represents everything Crowley skimmed off the top of Dean’s work profits—before and during his time at the Bay.</p><p>Considering that Dean generally took home a little over half of what Crowley’s clients actually paid (and only received his commissary stipend while in prison), the result is <em> not </em>a small amount.</p><p>“Alfie will be receiving a similar gift,” Castiel explains, unnervingly placid. </p><p>Stroking his chin, Dean makes a grumbling sort of noise and sucks in a deep breath, shifting against the couch cushions in discomfort. “Yeah, okay, but it’s the <em> ‘gift’ </em> part of this bullshit that concerns me. Nothing’s fucking free, Cas. Not with the Knights. I <em> told </em>Cain—”</p><p>“You read the letter,” Castiel interjects. “You spoke to him yourself and you know how he feels regarding Crowley’s detestable legacy.” Cas reaches out and extracts Cain’s note from Dean’s grasp, looking it over. “See?” he says, handing it back. “He explains his intentions, very clearly. The restitution is for <em> him </em>and his conscience. It’s not about you at all.”</p><p>“I guess,” Dean hedges.</p><p>“Cain also says—right here—that he considers this a final ‘severance package’ of sorts—if you desire any additional assistance from him in the future, you’ll have to negotiate with the Knights.”</p><p>Dean flicks the account statement between his fingers absently. “Doesn’t really seem like I have a choice about accepting.”</p><p>Cas’ expression goes soft as the corner of his mouth ticks up. “Well,” he says. “We both know that isn’t true. However, I can confidently point out that Cain has acted in a trustworthy manner thus far, upholding his end of things at every turn, to significant personal cost.”</p><p><em> That’s true, </em>Dean thinks. He’s gotta give the guy credit where credit is due.</p><p>“And this money <em> is </em>yours, Dean. It belongs to you.”</p><p>“It’s not coming <em> from </em>Crowley, so—”</p><p>“We don’t know where it came from,” Castiel reminds him, sliding forward on his seat to take a hand that Dean didn’t even realize was trembling. “Dean,” he says sincerely, blue eyes wide and honest as he gives a reassuring squeeze. “Stop making everything so hard.” </p><p>***</p><p>
  <em> Present Day </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Time served and two years probation. Conditional release with stipulations for court-mandated therapy, agreement to remain in-county, good-faith efforts to establish and maintain a stable residence and gainful employment.  </em>
</p><p>It’s best-<em> freaking- </em> case scenario for both of them, him and Alfie. Dean can barely believe it, struggling not to dissociate just on <em> principle </em> because it’s absolutely <em> unbelievable </em> that this nightmare is over. <em> It’s over. </em>He won’t be sleeping in a cell tonight, won’t wake up to the beep of the gate tomorrow morning, won’t have to eat the shit cafeteria food for even one more meal. </p><p>Garth is all smiles and Alfie is chattier than Dean’s ever known him to be as they ride back to the Bay in the secured transport van. They’re both still cuffed (since they’re technically inmates and have to be <em> officially </em>processed out), but Garth does them the courtesy of unlocking both ankle restraints just as soon as the official plea deal papers are signed. </p><p>The world flies by in a blur of concrete and glass buildings that slowly but surely morph one by one into scattered rural housing and field-heavy countryside. Dean watches, half in a state of shock as they draw closer and closer to the ocean. As the van turns off of the highway and onto the backroads that lead to the town and the Bay, he thinks, <em>that—that’s for me</em>. <em>Tonight, I’ll be out there.</em> <em>I’m free. </em></p><p>The reality—the <em> gravity</em>—of his situation hasn’t entirely sunk in, even as the van trundles through the exterior and then the secondary gates enclosing the Bay. Dean feels like he’s floating, not entirely inside his own body, simultaneously tensed and waiting for the other shoe to drop. </p><p>It’s difficult not to feel like that’s what’s happening when the van comes to its final stop at the loading dock and the doors swing wide. Additional brass usually come out to meet prisoners returning from court, so the several uniforms standing there aren’t a surprise, but the <em> Warden’s </em>presence definitely is.</p><p>Dean wishes it was Cas, wonders why the hell the <em> one </em>person he wants to see is currently MIA. He steps out of the van warily, refusing any assist from Garth (since his hands are still cuffed) and struggles to suppress the way the hair on the back of his neck wants to stand on end. Cool, salty air whips at his face and Dean wishes he could enjoy it—but the Warden staring him down has him too busy panicking that something is up.</p><p>As it turns out, his instinctive jump to paranoia isn’t actually necessary—<em>Naomi </em> only came to congratulate Dean and Alfie and to wish them luck in the future. She even went so far as to <em> thank </em>Dean and commend him for his influence on the inmates—a “job well done,” apparently. They’re inside and halfway through intake before Dean realizes he can probably exhale, just in time for Naomi to pat him on the shoulder and take her leave.</p><p>Before she goes, she gives the guards permission to skip the standard-procedure strip search. It’s a sensical move, saving the prison staff time and energy as well, since Dean and Alfie are only returning to their cells to collect their belongings before being processed out. Even still, this is <em> prison. </em> Exceptions aren’t made when it comes to safety, to <em> protocol, </em>not for any reason. </p><p>The thing is, strip searches are dehumanizing. No matter how many times a person might go through the process, no matter how <em> good </em>at desensitization one works to be—they suck, and Dean can list about a thousand ways that’s the case. </p><p>And the Warden is letting him skip it. </p><p>This is a gesture, Dean gets it. As small and arguably insignificant as it is, it’s a small recognition of Dean’s humanity, of him as a <em> person. </em> Plus, it gets him out of here like thirty minutes faster, if he moves his ass. </p><p>Naomi looks back over her shoulder to nod at him and Dean nods back, as sincerely and thankfully as he can.</p><p>
  <em> It’s really over.  </em>
</p><p>The walk with Garth back to H2 remains surreal. Dean hasn’t lost hope that he might still catch Cas, but the therapist’s office blinds are open and the room is empty when they pass. Dean cranes his neck to look, clocking that Cas’ desk is neat, no sign that he’s even been in there today at all. </p><p>It’s disappointing—Dean <em> really </em>hoped he’d get to say goodbye, but maybe it’s best that they don’t do that with other people around. On the other hand, he’s got a slip of paper with an address in his pocket, and it’s fueling the flames of hope. Per best-laid plans from their last session, the address belongs to the motel where he knows Cas is staying. Dean’ll walk there if he has to, apparently it’s not far. Start by renting a room for tonight, and if it’s as decent a place as Cas claims it is, who knows?</p><p>Maybe they <em> will </em> be neighbors. Maybe, just maybe, if Cas sees Dean in something other than prison orange, watches him hold down a job and act like a productive member of society, and <em> doesn’t </em> have him sitting on his therapy couch twice a week—<em>maybe. </em> Maybe then, Cas might let himself have the thing Dean <em> knows </em>he damn well wants. </p><p>Dean clutches his release papers in his hands, the details of his parole and probation all printed in inky black on stark white. He has to work not to crush or tear them between his nervous fingers. He <em> wishes </em> he could just be happy, be <em> thrilled </em> about getting out, but he can’t stop thinking about <em> Cas. </em></p><p>Any other time and place, and they’d be in love. <em> Wouldn’t they? </em></p><p>But this isn’t any other time and place. It’s here and now, with <em> these </em> circumstances, <em> this </em> situation, and Cas’ <em> unyielding </em>fucking “ethical code”.</p><p>Besides all that, Dean is not a creep.</p><p>He’s not pushy, not when it comes to romantic partners. He’s had his own boundaries bent and ripped and violated too many goddamn times to even <em> think </em> about doing that to someone else, intentions be damned. Yeah, he’s got some <em> crazy- </em> strong feelings for Cas. So strong, it hurts somewhere deep in Dean’s chest to imagine <em> not </em>seeing the guy all the time, not being able to talk to or be near him, even if “near” is the closest he can get. </p><p>But that doesn’t entitle him to anything. Deciding to let Dean in, to give whatever they could have a real shot—that’s <em> Cas’ </em>decision, and Dean’s gotta let him have it. </p><p>He’s so wrapped up in his head that when their little trio of ill-fitting suits rounds the corner from the admin hallway to H2, Dean isn’t remotely paying attention to his surroundings. Which is why, when they step up to the bars and his living space is fucking <em> crowded, </em>he’s completely caught off-guard and taken by—</p><p>“Surprise!” comes the collective yell. Force of habit—a quick scan of the faces present reveals to Dean a bunch of smiling friends, not ambushing enemies. While he hates to admit it, the idea that his people might turn on him now that he’s getting out is something Dean heavily considered, something that kept him up until well past midnight the night before.</p><p>Once again, it seems like he’s wrong to worry. Benny, Max, Jesse, and Cesar are all crowded around H2’s dining table. Their arms are spread proudly, indicating a sad-looking cake displayed in the middle, unceremoniously plopped atop a paper plate. Even sadder than the little dessert is the unlit cigarette masquerading as a “candle” in the center. “Cake” is something Max taught Dean to concoct out of cookies, peanut butter, candy and a little cappuccino powder back when he was brand new at the Bay, and Max is grinning knowingly at him now.</p><p>It’s no birthday cake from Cas, but Dean can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face at the sight. He won’t miss this place—<em>understatement of the century</em>—but some of the people...</p><p>“Congratulations, you two,” Benny says as Dean and Alfie step forward into the cell. Garth hangs back at the gate, leaning against the bars like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Guess this is it, huh?” </p><p>“Guess so, brother,” Dean replies, sobering up pretty quickly. He reaches out to slap Benny’s hand before shaking it. “You gonna have them vote, or should I let you knock me around a bit before I head out?” He’s joking, but he’d do it—leave here with a split lip and black eye—if it meant one of Crowley’s cronies wouldn’t have a chance at stepping up in Dean’s absence.</p><p>“Nah,” Benny says, almost bashfully. “We’ll see. Gonna let them vote, later.” </p><p>“Proud of you,” Dean tells him, doing his best to hide the surprise he feels. </p><p>“You know I love a challenge.” Benny winks and Garth coughs from the doorway, tapping his imaginary watch. “Time to go, cher.” </p><p>Dean and Alfie split to say their respective goodbyes, hugging those who deserve it and carefully bypassing the fairweather allies they’ve picked up along the way. Boxes are waiting in each of their rooms, though neither of them have very much to pack. Dean takes his toiletries, just in case. Years of having nothing before prison taught him never to waste, not that he’s keen on smelling like the Bay for even a second longer than he has to. </p><p>On top of his items, Dean nestles the copy of <span class="u">Slaughterhouse Five</span> he received from Sam on his birthday. At the bottom, he tucks <span class="u">On The Road</span><em>, </em>as well as some broken shells he picked up in the yard. Small pieces that blew in with the occasionally extreme winds prone to ripping through the chain fence and onto the concrete. Technically contraband, they’ve sat on his windowsill for months, smelling like the sea and freedom. </p><p>None of the goodbyes are drawn out. After all, this isn’t a place anyone is hesitant to leave. By the time Alfie and Dean emerge from their cells, H2’s living space is mostly clear. Their block mates and a few others are still present, waving and clapping them both on their backs as they pass, and then—</p><p>
  <em> They go.  </em>
</p><p>The compound is loud, full of voices and laughter, since it’s open for afternoon activities. Everyone is bustling about, headed towards the yard or to some other leisure activity, or to hang in a friend’s housing block. It feels <em> lighter </em>than it ever has, even considering the dramatic change in atmosphere once Crowley was ousted. Perhaps that’s just perspective.</p><p>The heels of Dean’s too-big dress shoes click on the tile as he follows Garth down the hall, Alfie steady at his side. He swallows, passing the infirmary and waving to Tessa for the last time. “Bye Dean! Good luck,” she calls after him, like she didn’t recently subject him to his least favorite swab exam <em> once </em>more with absolutely no reservation or apology. If there’s one thing Dean can’t do, it’s thank her for that, so a sincere flutter of his hand will have to do. </p><p>Cas’ office is next, and Dean finds that he has mixed feelings walking by. It’s not home—it’s not <em> anything </em> like that—but Cas’ office was <em> safe. </em> It was a harbor in the storm, a place of respite, the space where his luck changed. The place where Cas <em> saved </em> him, more than once. For that, Dean feels like he might always be nostalgic for what the office represents. <em> Especially </em> if it ends up containing the ghosts of the last <em> really good </em>memories of Cas that Dean is ever going to get. </p><p>It’s strange that it’s not a place he can ever revisit, for better or for worse.</p><p>At the end of the admin hallway, when they have to pause to pass through the secured doors, Dean turns around. His intent is to flip off everything he’s leaving behind, and he expects to find a fairly empty hall. Instead, he discovers that a group of prisoners have followed them, including his entire crew. Dean’s eyes involuntarily go a little hazy when a few of them tap their fists over their heart before pointing directly at him. </p><p>“Kick it in the ass,” Max calls out, nodding seriously at Dean.</p><p>“I'll see you on the other side, brother,” Benny adds.</p><p>“Now get the hell out of here,” Cesar tells him, wearing a wide smile.</p><p>Jesse winds an affectionate arm around Cesar’s and looks at Dean pointedly. “And don’t <em> fucking </em>come back!” </p><p>As Garth beeps them through and the door closes behind them, Alfie and Dean glance at each other before lifting their fists in the air. <em> Oh, hell, </em> Dean thinks, knowing full-well how cheesy this is and feeling a surge or pride about it anyway. <em> Why not? </em></p><p>On the other side of the glass, loud as <em> fuck, </em> the group erupts in a chorus of rowdy cheers. The sounds of, “Top Dog! Top Dog! Top Dog! Top Dog!” follow them well outside the secured area, and inside his head, Dean thrills. Maybe it shouldn’t, but the chanting feels <em> really </em>damn good. Like maybe, just maybe, he made a difference here, after all.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Garth grumbles as he badges them into the hallway that leads to intake and out-processing. “You just had to rile them up one last time?” </p><p>“You know me,” Dean says, sporting a sharp grin. “I live to make trouble.” </p><p>***</p><p>All of the personal belongings Dean and Alfie handed over during intake show up in giant, sealed plastic bags with corresponding inventory lists. Alfie had almost nothing on him when he arrived at the Bay, and so Garth processes him out first. Alfie gives Dean a hug before he leaves, looking incredibly young and almost painfully small in his street clothes. </p><p>“Thank you,” he says, serious as he’s ever been.</p><p>“Keep in touch,” Dean tells him, and he means it, pressing a scrap of paper with his contact info into Alfie’s palm. “Don’t be a stranger.” </p><p>And then he’s gone, and it’s Dean’s turn. Unlike Alfie, who left his suit in a neatly-folded pile on the table (presumably to be returned to Cas), Dean takes his with him. Even with the new additions to his box, it’s still not full. As Garth rambles, Dean muses internally about asking Sam to send the few things he <em> does </em>have to his name out this way. Not that he owns much, but as is, one outfit that needs to be washed itself isn’t going to get Dean very far.</p><p>He pulls on his old jeans over a pair of prison-issue boxers, buttons them up. Slips on his favorite Led Zeppelin t-shirt, a grey hoodie, and his leather jacket. He pulls on boots that he used to wear daily, laces them up, and tries to believe this is <em> real, </em>it’s happening.</p><p>“Congratulations, Mr. Winchester,” Garth tells him. He’s smiling jauntily, like the weird, quirky dude he is. “I wish you all the luck in the world.” After everything, coming from Garth? Brass or not, Dean actually believes that he means it. </p><p>Dean’s heart thuds in his chest as Garth badges open the last interior door, leading him into a glass alcove that protects the exit. He waits patiently as Garth steps outside first, walking a few feet down the ramp to hold the door wide open for Dean.</p><p>“That’s it?” Dean asks, almost warily. </p><p>“That’s it,” Garth says brightly. “Have a good night!” He winks, steps back into the alcove, guides the door closed behind him, and then he’s gone.</p><p>And Dean is alone.</p><p>
  <em> Outside.  </em>
</p><p>He almost loses feeling in his hands from the wave of pure <em> excitement </em> and relief that courses through his body. Dean closes his eyes, turns his face up to the sun, and just drinks it all in for a prolonged moment. The distant sound of the waves rolling onto the shore, the salt-sticky cool breeze in his face, ruffling his hair, filling his nose. The chirping of the birds and the rustling of the trees lining the inner edge of the Bay’s parking area—it’s a <em> lot.  </em></p><p>Dean opens his eyes and is almost surprised to find himself still standing, still <em> outside, </em>still free.</p><p>It is somewhat anticlimactic, though. Being the middle of the afternoon, shift change isn’t for a while, and it’s not a visitation day, so no one is around. The parking lot is only a quarter-full of cars and otherwise empty of signs of life—at least, if Dean doesn’t count the squirrel that darts across a handful of spaces before squeezing back out through the fence.</p><p><em> Jailbreak, </em>he thinks, laughing to himself.</p><p>No one’s there to meet him, but that’s Dean’s own fault, and he knew what he was doing. He kept Sam and Bobby away, and who the hell else would even care? A certain name and a dreamy face flash across Dean’s mind’s eye, but he pushes it all away. He never expected Cas to be here, wouldn’t dream of hoping for or holding him to something like that.</p><p>Still—and despite the sunshine—it’s a little gloomy as Dean walks across the parking lot. Alfie must have been picked up, because he’s nowhere in sight. Dean realizes, as he approaches the guardhouse that controls the exterior gate, that he has no idea what lies beyond. Not metaphorically—literally, he’s got no clue what kind of street or access road he’s about to encounter.</p><p>Well—he <em> does </em> know that there are paved roads and scattered residences. Remembers that he’s to turn right and then left at the first available opportunity to find the main drag. Supposedly, he can walk that stretch all the way down and into town. But that’s it, that’s all the information he has about what lies beyond that gate. He couldn’t exactly see from the back of the transport van, was never really in a place to pay attention, either.</p><p>So Dean is surprised when the parking lot ends in fencing that’s essentially bordered by a <em> second </em> barricade of pure vegetation. Lush, <em> old </em> trees tower high above, though on either side of the prison they’re absent—likely for visibility and safety. The canopy is <em> green </em>for so early in spring, but then, it’s temperate here, too. Unfortunately, the trees block the view of whatever else lies beyond, so Dean will just have to find out as he goes.</p><p>At the guardhouse, the officer inside doesn’t so much as crack the window before waving Dean on. He hears her radio crackle anyway, and instinctively flinches. He has to take a moment and re-center himself before walking through the slowly-opening gate, but once he’s on the other side, reality does start to sink in. </p><p>
  <em> It’s over. It’s really over.  </em>
</p><p>As the gate creaks closed behind him, sealing and locking with a very final-sounding <em> clang, </em> Dean exhales. Peace begins to seep in around the cracks of his anxious mind, and he <em> starts </em> to consider that <em> maybe </em> the other shoe isn’t going to drop. That it could be safe to look forward, to <em> hope, </em>to plan. Dean thinks about his freshly-inflated bank account and then flashes on the burger place in town Cas raved about one time.</p><p>Maybe he’ll stop by there tonight, splurge on a really nice dinner and an awesome beer. Maybe he’ll eat it on the freaking beach—<em>the real beach—</em>just because he <em> can.  </em></p><p>Dean shifts the box of crap in his hands and smiles. He starts forward, moving away from the gates of the Bay, walking about fifty more paces before passing the giant entrance and warning signs and rounding the corner to the street. </p><p>It’s an oddly normal rural road—serene and quiet, equally thick with shrubs, flora, and greenery as the prison’s treeline. The birds chirp and tree branches wave from high above in the drifting ocean breeze, casting patchwork shadows down onto the street below. Maybe halfway down on the opposite side in the direction Dean is headed, there’s a house. Just one house, and virtually nothing else.</p><p>Well, except for <em> one </em>thing.</p><p>There, parked on the prison side of the road less than a hundred feet away, is his Baby. The first love of Dean’s life, his most loyal friend, his <em> escape </em> from everything: his beautiful, dependable <em> car. </em> Sitting there, all black and shiny and inviting, she looks every bit of the home Dean’s been missing and craving all this time. It’s her—it’s <em> definitely </em> her, Dean doesn’t need to check the license plate to be sure, he’d know his Baby <em> anywhere. </em></p><p><em> But how? </em> She was under a tarp at Bobby’s, last he checked, and if Sam or Bobby was here, why would they hide? After a cursory search of the street for suspicious tabby cats or possible portkeys, Dean thinks, <em> what sorcery is this? </em></p><p>The mystery is revealed in the most heart-stopping way possible when Baby’s driver door opens and out steps <em> Castiel. </em> Dean’s eyes follow his every movement, from one dress shoe touching down on the pavement, to Cas lifting his head, the strands of his hair catching the light as he stands. Dean can barely breathe as he takes him in, so desperately familiar and yet, so foreign like this. Cas’ expression is warm and his eyes are bright—shining and full of affection, and <em> all </em>for Dean. </p><p>There’s an almost embarrassed little smile gracing Cas’ handsome face, and the fractalized afternoon sun halos him perfectly from behind. With it, Cas looks <em> every </em> goddamn inch the angel he claims he isn’t, and Dean’s never been less convinced. Here Cas is, saving his ass again, turning his own personal Hell into something Dean thinks <em> could </em>be way freaking better than Heaven.</p><p>
  <em> Hot guy. Hot car. Ashes. Sunset. </em>
</p><p>Dean steps forward, starting towards Castiel and unconsciously breaking into a run to shrink the remaining distance between them. When he gets close, almost within touching distance, he tosses the box of personal items to the ground and slows to let Cas come the last few feet to him. Nearly nose to nose, Dean smiles down the scant two inches he has on Cas and says, “It’s not sunset yet.”</p><p>The small smile on Cas’ face breaks wide into a grin Dean’s <em> never </em> seen on him before. It stays there, even as Castiel throws himself into Dean’s arms and presses their lips together. He <em> feels </em> so damn happy that Dean thinks he can taste it. Threading his fingers into Cas’ soft hair, Dean wraps his free arm around his waist and holds on. Cas is <em> damn </em>good in his arms, even better than the last time, and Dean’s plans for dinner suddenly pale in comparison to this. </p><p>When Cas eventually pulls back, semi-reluctant and with Dean chasing his mouth determinedly, he drags a hand over Dean’s cheek and shushes him. “One moment,” he murmurs, digging into his pants pocket and producing a familiar set of dangling keys. “The sun will set eventually. I thought we could fill the time in between with some open road.”</p><p>Dean’s fingers close around the metal, and if freedom had a feeling, it would be <em> this, </em>pressed up against his chest and right here in the palm of his hand.</p><p>“Let’s ride.”</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this was originally supposed to go through Dean's first night, but I had to end it there. For reasons. :) You'll get Cas' POV on that (and so on) next time. Speaking of which...</p><p>Next time: First night, in all its gory detail. Through it all, Dean and Cas attempt to give us an entire chapter of domesticity, cuddling, and the “comfort” part of the hurt/comfort tag, no matter how their inner demons try to steer the story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Castiel’s whole body tingles, and if the shiver from Dean that the next press of their mouths elicits is any clue, he’s not alone. His chest is slightly tight and his breath comes a little short when he says, “In case I wasn’t clear, I’m so <i>very</i> glad you’re here. With the whole world in front of you—”</p><p>“The whole county, anyway.”</p><p>“Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you chose me anyway.”</p><p>Dean’s quiet for a moment, eyes searching as he smiles and tries to brush a too-short lock of hair behind Castiel’s ear. “Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you always had the whole world, and chose me anyway.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, and welcome to a new chapter, lol. I know y'all were hoping for smut but this is a marathon, not a sprint 🤣 No, but seriously...probably next time. they're working on it! Also, a quick reminder that recovery is not a straight line, don't begrudge Dean his setbacks ❤</p><p>If you have any questions about the warnings or if I forgot one, please feel free to leave a comment or DM me on <a href="https://twitter.com/caslostwings">Twitter</a> or <a href="https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>. You can try insta but i never go there and prob wont answer you 🤣</p><p>Chapter-specific Warnings:<br/>—&gt;Brief, non-graphic mentions of child abuse (homophobia, attempts at conversion therapy, physical abuse).<br/>—&gt; Cas reveals he has scars from this abuse, but we do not see them in this chapter.<br/>—&gt;Mention of major crimes being committed in the past by Castiel’s siblings (references to cults, injuries to others r/t DUI, other minor examples). This is not detailed or graphic, but it is intrinsic to understanding who Cas is today.<br/>—&gt;Poor coping skills—Dean attempts to hide his feelings from Cas and does some running away. This is brief.<br/>—&gt;Dean has a nightmare.<br/>—&gt;Hannibal spoilers :-D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arms laden down with bags full of burgers and fries—plus a newly-purchased beach blanket from one of the more blatant tourist traps on offer—Castiel’s heart skips a beat when he remembers that he’s bringing dinner for <em> Dean. </em>His pace quickens as he makes his way through the little town square and back onto the boardwalk that edges one side, connecting two strips of shops. The town is busier than it has been since Castiel moved in, residents and early vacationers alike enjoying the increasingly spring-like weather the shore has been having lately.</p><p>Tonight, Castiel <em> finally </em> feels like he’s a part of it. <em> He’s </em>the townie, showing the newest resident around and pointing out all of the features and amenities. He’s easygoing and cool, walking around with the hottest guy in sight on his arm. He’s not a loser or an outcast, the lonely nerd who walks by the town’s best bar and secretly wishes he had a friend group to invite him inside. Most importantly, he’s having a damn good time. </p><p>Something happened to Dean when he slipped behind the wheel of that giant black car that clearly meant the world to him. <em> Years </em> melted off of his beautiful face as Dean pressed the accelerator and left his fear, his worry, his pain, and his suffering in the rearview mirror. Flying down the open road, it took Dean nearly a half hour to even <em> ask </em> how his car—<em>Baby, </em> Castiel reminds himself—came to be <em> here, </em> in Castiel’s possession.</p><p>Thankfully, his careful calculation paid off, and the pleasure of having his car available <em> did </em> outweigh any resentment Dean might have felt over Castiel’s <em> other </em>meticulously-kept secret. That, of course, would be the fact that Castiel kept in contact with Sam after Dean’s birthday, sharing Dean’s court date (and subsequent outcome) when Dean opted to mislead his family. At the end of the day, both Sam and Bobby chose to stay away anyway, both feeling that it was better to respect Dean’s wishes regarding their presence.</p><p>In the background of Castiel’s most recent phone call to Sam, Bobby gruffly declared that Dean would let them all in when he was good and ready, and not a second sooner. Sam was slightly more reluctant to leave Dean to face his court date alone, but he eventually agreed. Unable to stomach the idea of doing<em> nothing </em>for Dean’s release, though, Sam had the genius idea of driving Baby down and leaving her in Castiel’s care—as a compromise. </p><p>“Baby’s home to us, as much as any place ever has been,” Sam said, semi-evasively. “Not just to Dean, but to me, too. I don’t want to get into a whole lot of heavy talk right now, but trust me, Cas. If Dean’s feeling lost, nothing will help like this car.” </p><p>Sam was right. Dean seemed like an almost entirely different person after putting rubber to the road for the better part of two hours. Aimless drives have never been Castiel’s thing (unless on a motorcycle—that’s <em> different</em>), but he would gladly have sat on that bench seat across from Dean and put endless miles behind them for <em> days </em> on end. Temperate wind rushing through the car and turning both of their hair wild, classic rock blasting through the speakers, and the joyful smile on Dean’s face—<em>paradise. </em></p><p>There weren’t words for how blissful it felt to Castiel to do something <em> normal </em> with Dean. To simply <em> be</em>, enjoying each other’s company with no expectations, no restrictions, no time constraints. It was everything he knew it would be and more.</p><p>By the time both of their bladders were screaming and Dean’s stomach was rumbling loud enough for Castiel to hear over Baby’s engine, the sun was well on its way to setting. Neither of them had to mention it out loud, but Dean looked ridiculously pleased as he ticked the last item off of his long-held “freedom” list.</p><p>Under Castiel’s direction, he guided the car right up to where the boardwalk abutts the town square. Parking her right next to the wide, wooden access stairs in the middle, Dean had grinned at Castiel, wiggled his eyebrows, and hopped out of the car without hesitation. The sky was still bright with pinks and reds, reflecting rather enticingly off of the ocean. It had turned somewhat chilly, but Dean showed no sign that he even felt the change.</p><p>After they both handled their business in the public restrooms, Dean had wandered onto the beach like a magnet to iron. Sensing that he needed a moment alone, Castiel excused himself to go forage for dinner, reluctantly leaving the man standing in the sand, staring out over the sea. If he had a hard time tearing his eyes away from the sight as he went, that was nobody’s business but Castiel’s. </p><p>It surprises Castiel exactly not at all when he returns to Dean having barely moved a muscle. It’s quite the striking image—if his hands weren’t occupied, Castiel would pull out his phone and snap a photo. Dean’s strong silhouette—wind-ruffled and framed by the dying evening light—breaks up an otherwise empty stretch of endless sand and the ocean’s white-capped waves, dark all the way out to the horizon. </p><p>Dark enough that the Bay is no longer visible down the beach and beyond the moorlands, a discovery for which Castiel decides he’s grateful.</p><p>When he makes it across the sand to pause at Dean’s side, Castiel finds his friend standing with his eyes closed. His pale, freckled cheeks are pink from both the chill and the wind. There’s not a worry line to be seen on Dean’s face, and that brings Castiel more peace than he’s felt in months. In that moment, it occurs to him what a toll this whole nightmare has really taken on them all—and perhaps, subconsciously, that is what pushed him over the edge and into Dean’s arms.</p><p>
  <em> Don’t they both deserve to be happy?  </em>
</p><p>Castiel’s still not sure (on his part), but after today, he can’t see himself giving it up, either.</p><p>“Hello, Dean,” he says.</p><p>Dean startles, slapping a hand over his heart as he recovers from nearly falling over in surprise. “Jesus, Cas. We need to get you a bell or something.” </p><p>“I apologize,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t really mean it, because Dean is inordinately attractive when he’s flustered. He lifts his arms to indicate his load. “I brought dinner, from the place you mentioned fantasizing about.”</p><p>Dean’s cheeks seem to go even redder as he stumbles over his words, distracting himself by taking the food from Castiel. “Fantasi—I didn’t—”</p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with fantasy, Dean,” Castiel interjects helpfully. He takes advantage of his arms being free to spread out the towel, though the wind fights him and it takes a bit of effort and stumbling around in the sand before it goes down. “It’s only natural, and regarding the things you’ve missed while in prison, <em> more </em> than understandable. Beyond that, though, using fantasy to cope with difficult subjects can be <em> extremely </em>therapeutic.” </p><p>Settling down onto the towel and tipping his head to peer up at a gaping Dean, Castiel pats the space next to him. “You are perfect, and you have nothing to be ashamed of, in this or anything else.”</p><p>Mouth snapping shut, Dean shakes off whatever he was about to say (and, from Castiel’s read on it, any sincere reaction) before plopping down on the towel, grumbling. “Thought you were done psychoanalyzing me,” he says, digging through the bag and extracting a burger before handing the surplus over. “<em>So </em>not cool.”</p><p>Castiel just smiles and bumps Dean’s shoulder with his. “I’m being supportive and non-judgmental,” he replies evenly, before unwrapping and taking a giant bite of his own burger. “Oh,” he says, moaning somewhat impolitely, since his mouth is very full. “These...these make me <em> very </em> happy.”  </p><p>A quick glance in Dean’s direction reveals him frozen and staring at Castiel wide-eyed, food forgotten halfway to his open mouth. It dawns on Castiel just then that he and Dean are <em> so </em>used to being careful around each other, so practiced in being visibly platonic, that anything else may take a bit of time to become natural.</p><p>In fact, <em> Dean </em>seems surprised by his own reaction, swiftly clearing his throat as he averts his eyes and and stuffs the burger the rest of its way into his mouth. His cheeks color, though, and Castiel can’t help but smile with a mix of amusement and fondness. He scoots a bit closer on the towel and leans in, letting his lips just barely brush the curve of Dean’s cheek. It’s not a come-on, just a simple gesture of affection.</p><p>“Seeing you look at me that way—would it be strange to admit how much I enjoy it?”</p><p>Dean makes a small grunting noise and shakes his head as he swallows. Wiping his mouth with the edge of the hoodie sleeve that’s peeking out from under his jacket, Dean puts the burger down on its wrapper and turns to Castiel. “I’m just getting used to it,” he says, inadvertently mirroring Castiel’s thoughts. Dean’s face is honest and open and slightly vulnerable, like perhaps he expects him to change his mind at any second. </p><p>Hoping to be reassuring, Castiel reaches to place his hand over Dean’s, where it’s supporting his body on the towel. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. The wind picks up a little, chillier now that the sun’s fully gone. Castiel finds himself grateful for the boardwalk lights—at least they’re still able to see. “Not so long as you want me here.”</p><p>Dean licks his lips. “Cas, you know I love Sammy more than life, and I’m crazy grateful he brought my Baby down. But I’m also glad it was you here, today. No bullshit.”</p><p>In other circumstances, Castiel would joke about Dean’s (lack of) eloquence, but it really isn’t the time. Instead, he lifts his hand to trace gentle fingers over the edge of Dean’s jaw. “He really believes in you. You both are...very fortunate to have each other.”</p><p>Ducking his head, Dean nods, but doesn’t volunteer anything else. Part of Castiel balks at making anything regarding this day about <em> him, </em>but on the other hand, perhaps that’s exactly what Dean needs. A start towards leveling the uneven playing field that stretches between them.</p><p>He takes a deep breath. “Sam…He revealed to me that Baby has been home to you both, in the past. He didn’t offer and I don’t need details to understand the sentiment, but I <em> do </em>suspect that the way you’re feeling is in part due to how your car reminds you of your brother. Of being there for each other and making it through the hardest times, against all odds.” Castiel pauses to gauge Dean’s face, pleased to see that he’s looking up again, obviously interested. </p><p>“Yeah?” Dean prods. “You, uh, relate to that?”</p><p>“Not at all,” Castiel replies, smiling a little bitterly. “I always had...things, growing up. Times were not hard. I lived in a large home, went to fancy summer camps and on vacations, wore expensive clothing and enjoyed the best private school education. There was an icemaker inside the fridge.” Dean’s expression closes off slightly and he frowns, so Castiel presses on. “What I did not have was <em> love. </em>Familial support and affection, hugs and encouragement, platitudes about being myself and my ability to do or accomplish anything I put my mind to.” </p><p>Dean’s chomping on his burger again, but he arches an eyebrow. “Dicks for parents?” he asks bluntly.</p><p>Nodding solemnly, Castiel agrees. “Indeed. <em> And </em>siblings. If it wasn’t so cold, I’d remove my shirt and show you the very physical scars my childhood gifted me with. Additionally, once I was old enough to reveal my ‘deviant tendencies’, the summer camps abruptly turned into conversion ones. Much less fun, hardly any campfire s’mores.” </p><p>Eyes going wide, Dean swallows his last bite and shuffles closer so that their knees are touching. “Fuck, Cas,” he says, letting his hand come to rest on Castiel’s thigh. “That’s wild. I mean, I get it. My dad was an asshole, but fuck. I don’t have <em> scars. </em>You end up in foster care or something?” </p><p>“No,” Castiel replies, shaking his head. “As you may have gathered from all the camps, my parents were rich beyond belief. Almost God-like in how untouchable they were because of it. As you have come to know firsthand, there are different rules for those who can afford the cost of bending them.” Dean makes a face. “It wasn’t just my parents, either. I had many brothers and sisters, all of whom possessed various delinquent tendencies at one time or another. None of them were saddled with judicial consequences.” </p><p>“What, like, drugs and petty theft? Breaking the speed limit? Rich kid shit?”</p><p>“That,” Castiel agrees, tipping his head from side to side. “But also, my eldest brother Michael was heading some form of a cult at one point, and the FBI became involved. I was still young and the details were not something I was made privy too, but I distinctly remember the words ‘kidnapping’ and ‘false imprisonment’ being thrown around, among other things. Michael had some rather intense delusions of grandeur.”</p><p>Dean’s mouth has dropped open slightly, and he’s staring at Castiel, clearly shocked. “And he did...<em> no </em> prison time?” </p><p>Castiel shrugs. “Neither did my brother Gabriel, who hit three other cars while driving intoxicated before wrapping his BMW around a tree. Naturally, he walked away unscathed. Several of his victims did not.”</p><p>“Damn.” Dean whistles, physically shaking off those delightful mental images. He narrows his eyes for a moment in contemplation before turning back to Castiel and waving his hand around like he’s parsing out Castiel’s aura. “Your whole deal makes a lot more sense, now,” he says bluntly. </p><p>Castiel doesn’t take offense, dropping his head to nod against his chest. “Yes, I thought it might.” He looks up to find Dean still staring at him intently and continues. “But aside from that, I just thought that you should know. Something about me, I mean, and who I am. Where I come from.”</p><p>“The other, <em> other </em> side of the tracks, you mean? Country clubs, swimming pools, three-martini-lunches, and a shit-ton of handshake deals that might or might not include covering up murder?” </p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>Dean is quiet for a moment, biting his lip to hide a grin. “Thanks,” he finally says, reaching forward to cup a hand around the back of Castiel’s head and drag him in for a kiss. It’s not nearly as romantic as the last two they’ve shared, but Castiel supposes not everything in life can be <em> Gone With The Wind.  </em></p><p>It’s still entirely pleasant, though. Firm and soft at the same time, and the indulgent look on Dean’s face when he pulls back is almost equally as satisfying. What’s more, kissing Dean—<em>having Dean kiss him—</em>after learning something rather unsavory about his personal life and history truly makes it all the better.</p><p>“Come,” Castiel says, somewhat reluctantly. “We should get you settled into your room.” Unless he’s imagining it (and projecting his own feelings at the thought of separating), Dean’s face falls a little. Even still, he’s quick to take Castiel’s outstretched hand and let himself be led back to the car.</p><p>The towel they were sitting on snaps razor-like grains of sand into the wind as Castiel shakes it out. They attack his face and his neck and make him scowl when he awkwardly tries clean it off and then fold it up one-handed.</p><p>“Dork,” Dean says lightly, as Castiel gives up and tosses the towel over his shoulder. He’s smirking, but the icy-fingered hand in Castiel’s squeezing that much tighter suggests he’s all talk.</p><p>***</p><p>The motel’s owner is manning the front desk when they show up, and (as Castiel knew he would be, because he checked in advance) he’s perfectly amenable to Dean’s situation. One deluxe room with a long-term rental discount, no problems, keys in hand within minutes of walking in. Dean seems relieved, promising the proprietor that he’ll be a model tenant and thanking him more than once. </p><p>“Everyone deserves a second chance,” the owner says, very seriously. Dean nods, unable to look away fast enough to prevent Castiel from seeing the water filling his eyes. “Here,” he adds, folding up a newspaper that was lying open on the countertop. “This is the town rag, this week’s edition. Take it. Some job listings in the back, since you’re looking.” </p><p>“Thank you,” Dean tells him again, a sentiment Castiel echoes as he leads him out. </p><p>Back in the parking lot, Dean hesitates next to Baby, flipping her keys over in his hand. Sensing awkwardness, Castiel points across the way to his cottage. “That’s me,” he says, “With the motorcycle parked in front. You can always—just knock if you need anything. Or want to visit.” Castiel attempts a flirty smile, but it feels unfamiliar and strange on his face. He sighs. “Anything, Dean, really. If you’re awake tomorrow morning, I usually have breakfast around seven. I’d love to share it with you.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean replies distractedly, acting more distant than he has all day. “I’ll try and do that.”</p><p>“Dean? Would—may I help you take your things inside?” </p><p>There’s a prolonged moment of silence where Dean doesn’t reply, doesn’t say anything. He seems almost zoned out, right before he shakes his head and seems to instantly snap back to reality. Unfortunately, the grin he flashes Castiel is fake, and it wouldn’t take a therapist or someone in love with him to spot that mess from a mile away.</p><p>“Nah, I’m good, Cas,” he lies.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel protests. </p><p>“Seriously, no worries, sunshine.” Without another word, Dean claps him on the shoulder and turns on his heel, jogging up the stairs to the second floor, where his room is. “See you in the morning,” he calls over his shoulder.</p><p>Concerned, Castiel squints up at Dean’s back, unable to enjoy the cutesy nickname because he’s too busy trying to think of a decent excuse to stomp after him. Whatever they have hasn’t yet been defined, so Castiel’s not sure it’s appropriate for him to lean on “worried boyfriend,” much as he might yearn to do so. He <em> definitely </em>can’t act in his former therapist’s role.</p><p>The simplest answer stares Castiel mockingly in his face: let him go.</p><p>Dean is clearly not okay, but perhaps he simply needs space. Perhaps he needs time to <em> process </em> his newfound freedom on his own for a bit. Perhaps he just wants to pee without someone standing three feet away, waiting for him to finish. It could be any number of harmless, expected things. Reason aside, <em> Dean </em> needs to be the one to ask him for help, to <em> choose </em>to lean on Castiel from here forward.</p><p>On the other hand, Dean is also a stubborn bastard who thinks the weight of the world on his shoulders is <em> less </em>than he deserves, which is difficult knowledge for Castiel to push aside.</p><p>Reluctantly, he does. Castiel tears his gaze away from the little gold “11” decorating Dean’s now-closed door, wandering back across the parking lot towards his own home. He busies himself going about his usual evening routine, although tonight it’s interspersed with frequent glances out the window for any sign of Dean. </p><p>Nothing, not for well over an hour after they part. Dean doesn’t come down to retrieve his belongings from the Impala, doesn’t make any appearance at all, and Castiel’s concern grows. He showers—quickly, worried that he’ll miss Dean—and then wonders after the fact if he did. He cracks a beer and sits on his couch, not even pretending to turn on the TV. He <em> does </em>flip on the overhead and turns every bulb in the cottage to high. It’s really all he can do—keep the lights on so that if Dean looks, he’ll know Castiel is awake. </p><p>Around ten p.m., Dean’s door opens and he emerges. Naturally, Castiel sees, because he’s watching the window like it really is his TV. Dean is still wearing the same clothes Castiel picked him up in, though the temperature has dropped significantly. There’s no way he isn’t cold, but Dean barely flinches as the wind hits his face. From this far away, Castiel can’t see his expression, but the man’s determined walk says it all. </p><p>Instantly, Castiel knows where he’s going, but he wills himself not to follow. Physically sits on his hands, in fact, just to remind himself that Dean is an adult. Moreover, if he wanted Castiel, he’d be here. Simple as that.</p><p>Logic manages to rein in Castiel’s brain and body for a fully twenty minutes or so—truly a miraculous achievement, in his opinion—before his heart and emotions wrestle back control. There’s a tugging behind his ribs, and whether it makes sense or not, Castiel <em> knows—he just knows—</em>that Dean needs him. </p><p>Barely taking the time to pull sneakers and his jacket on first, Castiel’s out the door and running. It’s pretty damn cold near the water at this time of night, and the wind has picked up even more since their impromptu picnic on the beach. All the same, Castiel ignores the biting sting on his face and hands.</p><p>The tugging in his chest is relentless, and Castiel allows it to lead him. Hightailing it down the street and through the now-quiet town, he makes quick work of the square. Jumping up onto the boardwalk, Castiel’s steps echo and creak as he slows his pace to a walk once his feet touch wood. </p><p>For the second time tonight, Castiel silently thanks whoever greenlit paying for the illumination of the boardwalk through all the sunless hours. Because of the way the warm, orange-tinged light stretches out onto the beach, Castiel has no problem locating Dean’s hunched figured where he’s sitting somewhat dejectedly. More than halfway from the boardwalk to the water, his toes are <em> just </em> out of reach of the tide. </p><p>Sighing, Castiel pauses to suck in and exhale a plaintive breath. The cold air combined with his all-out sprint from home burns his lungs as they fill, but Castiel pays the discomfort no mind. He sets off across the sand, shoes sinking in a way that would undoubtedly make him unsteady if Castiel wasn’t already so used to it. </p><p>He drops down next to Dean, who doesn’t so much as blink, never mind tear his gaze from where it’s fixed on the dark and endless horizon. Dean’s knees are pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them and clutching his own elbows so tightly that the knuckles of his hands have turned white. </p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says softly. “Why are you out here?”</p><p>A small, keening noise filters out of Dean’s mouth, and when Dean realizes what’s happened, he groans and drops his forehead to his knees for a long moment. “Sorry,” he says when he surfaces. “It’s just—I dunno, Cas. Felt like I was trading one cell for another. The walls were closing in and I just needed—” He gestures around them. “Wide open spaces. People.”</p><p>Glancing around like he’s missing something, Castiel raises an eyebrow. “The first part, I understand. Unfortunately, this town is fairly quiet at night, I don’t think—”</p><p>“You,” Dean says quietly. “I don’t actually like most people.” </p><p>It’s then that Castiel notices Dean is shivering, finely enough that he can still hide it if he makes an effort, but that won’t last long. Castiel scoots closer, pressing his body up against Dean’s side and fighting the flinch that the chill of his leather jacket brings. “I told you to come over—”</p><p>“I didn’t want to be a burden,” Dean interjects quickly, still tense enough that it feels like a mixed signal. Dean’s words claim he wants Castiel around, but his body language says the opposite. Watching Dean avert his eyes, the gears click into place in Castiel’s head, and he understands. Fortunately, he knows Dean well enough to identify exactly what he needs to hear and to say it without reservation. </p><p>“I’ve been watching my window all evening, hoping you’d come back. Disappointed at any movement I saw in the parking lot that didn’t turn out to be you, walking towards my door.” At Castiel’s words, Dean’s face softens, the hard line of his shoulders relaxing slightly, and Castiel slips an arm around him. “More than anything, I wanted to go to you. To drag you out of that room and into my bed, to refuse to let you go. Except, you deserve better than that. You deserve autonomy and space to be free to make your own choices.”</p><p>The corner of Dean’s mouth ticks up in a reserved smile. “That what you’re doing right now? Giving me space?”</p><p>Very seriously, Castiel replies, “Are you saying you want me to leave?”</p><p>“No,” Dean whispers, relenting at last. He shifts to curl into Castiel, tucking his freezing cold face into the crook of Castiel’s neck. </p><p>“Good,” Castiel replies, threading his fingers into Dean’s icy hair. “Then let’s go home together.” </p><p>***</p><p>Inside Castiel’s cabin, Dean rubs his hands together for warmth as he peers around in wonderment. “This is nice,” he says, and for once, Castiel can’t read him.</p><p>“Is that...sarcasm? It may be small, but it has everything I need for the time being.”</p><p>“No,” Dean says, turning around from where he’s been poking at a framed picture of the beach, taken from the boardwalk. “No, I like it. I get why you stay here.” </p><p>Castiel squints and folds his arms across his chest. “It can’t be much larger than your room.”</p><p>Dean just shrugs, rolling his jacket down over his shoulders and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I like it,” he repeats, almost defiantly.</p><p>Shrugging Dean’s inconsistent behavior off, Castiel moves to take off his own outerwear, and then stops. “Dean,” he says. “Did you—did you bring in your things? The clothes and items Sam sent with your vehicle?”</p><p>Looking up almost guiltily, Dean doesn’t reply, but Castiel is fairly certain that what he’s doing can be described as, “puppy dog eyes.” <em> Interesting. </em>“Alright,” he says easily. “Is there anything in your room that you need?” Once again, Dean is silent, and Castiel is left to read between the lines. “You didn’t leave so much as a rogue hair, did you?” </p><p>Dean opens his mouth to (presumably) defend himself, but Castiel waves him off. “Go shower,” he says, more commanding than he perhaps intended to come off. “You have salt caked into your hair. There’s a clean toothbrush and a razor in the medicine cabinet, feel free to utilize whatever products of mine you like.” The offer has the desired effect: Dean’s mouth snaps shut and he salutes before adjourning to the bathroom without protest. </p><p>To Castiel’s delight, he leaves his jacket where it was tossed carelessly onto the bed. Rifling through the pockets, Castiel finds what he’s searching for and makes a quick decision. He pockets the keys to Baby, and quietly lets himself back outside.</p><p>By time time the water turns off in the bathroom, Castiel (moving quicker than he would have given himself credit for) is just kicking the door to the cottage closed after carting the last load inside. Dean’s boxes and duffles that filled the back seat and trunk of the Impala are now carefully stacked next to Castiel’s own unpacked remnants from his former life. The area next to the window is becoming almost problematically crowded.</p><p>The door to the bathroom swings open before Castiel can quite manage to stack the last box on top of the pile. Dean strolls out looking <em> much </em> more relaxed—naked, save for the towel slung casually around his waist and, <em> Oh, </em> Castiel thinks, <em> to be terrycloth—</em>albeit slightly confused. He raises one eyebrow in question when he notices Castiel standing almost guiltily in the middle of the room, heavy parcel still straining the muscles in his arms. </p><p>“I have a confession,” Castiel admits, sliding the box into place. He very carefully averts his eyes from the drops of water that cling to Dean’s skin, tracking wanton trails down his lovely chest and abdomen. Wetting his lips, Castiel drums fingertips on the top of his own stack of boxes, contemplating what to say and how best to say it.</p><p>“Yeah? Wait—it’s not that you’re a cannibalistic serial killer, is it? The mind-mannered, sharp-as-a-tack therapist who secretly eats his patients? Listen, I know how Hannibal ends, and Will Graham never even gets laid before they throw themselves off a cliff. I like the ocean as much as the next guy, but—”</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel interrupts, fixing him with a glare that’s bursting with faux-irritation. It’s nothing but a pleasure to have Dean by his side, in his space, and annoying the hell out of him near-constantly. Dean acts like he knows it—plops down on the bed and grins, not even pretending to try and locate any fresh clothes. Castiel’s eyes are drawn to the way the knot at his waist loosens with movement, leaving the towel to droop precariously around the dip of Dean’s hips.</p><p>
  <em> Clothing. Right. </em>
</p><p>That, Castiel can help with. He locates the duffle Sam indicated held Dean’s favorite items, picking it up and slinging it in Dean’s direction. “Put something on and I’ll tell you,” he says evenly, regretting his words even as they’re coming out of his mouth. He’s determined to be careful with Dean, to give him the space and time he needs and to <em> not </em> take advantage of the way Dean is desperately seeking comfort, vulnerable as he is right now.</p><p>Even still, if Dean refuses, Castiel’s not sure he has the mental fortitude to argue.</p><p>Thankfully (or perhaps not, he hasn’t decided), Dean digs a clean t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants out of the bag. He pulls them both on with a happy little noise that makes Castiel feel strange inside. While Dean dresses, he politely averts his eyes, hanging up his jacket and taking his place on his usual side of the bed. He kicks off his shoes as Dean finishes tying his pants, belatedly noting that Dean’s brow is furrowed and his nose is buried in the neck of his tee. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Dude...Sam <em> washed </em>these. Like...recently. And fucking folded them! Like he’s the mom and I’m some college kid with questionable hygiene and a lack of motivation to operate a washing machine.” </p><p>Castiel suppresses his smile as he makes himself comfortable against the headboard. “I told you. He cares about you very much. You’re lucky to have each other.” </p><p>Dean snorts as he tosses the bag onto the ground. “Dunno how I feel ‘bout Sammy being the responsible adult in the family, but I guess it’s just another thing I gotta accept and deal with.”</p><p>“That’s very mature of you.”</p><p>“So?” Dean prompts, sitting down on the opposite side of the bed but facing Castiel. His body language is much more calm and casual than he was on the beach, much closer to the Dean that went speeding down the highway and back earlier today. </p><p>“Right,” Castiel replies, somewhat distractedly. Dean’s gaze is heavy and affectionate, looking him up and down and it’s very...<em>distracting</em>. Castiel takes a deep breath. “Right, uh. Well, the truth is that I also have somewhere else to go, and I choose to be here. Technically, I own a house at the southern end of town, although it’s an absolute pit of rotten wood, bugs, and my own tears, so I’m not sure it counts, but <em> technically </em>we both have an elsewhere we could be.” </p><p>“Huh,” Dean says. “And you thought that was an important thing for me to know?”</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel insists. “Dean—don’t mistake me, I want you to be here. I didn’t move your things in because I’m ambiguous about my feelings for you. However, there are a few things we should probably discuss, now that our relationship has <em> officially </em>shifted.” </p><p>Dean stretches out sideways on the bed, resting his head on Castiel’s ankles. “Yeah? Shoot.” He’s so easy, so casual about all of this, it frustrates Castiel a little. Truthfully, though, it excites him even more. At the very least, it makes what he has to say less terrifying.</p><p>“We’ve talked about transference,” he begins, and as expected, that word is met with a dismissive huff from Dean. “Just—” Castiel holds up a hand. “Please.” Dean rolls his eyes but motions for Castiel to continue. “As you know, transference is normal. Developing romantic feelings for a therapist is extremely common. The existence of said feelings usually points to some deeper issue, some unfinished business from the patient’s past that requires resolution. Finding the root of the problem and actively working through it should cause the transferred feelings to subside and perhaps even go away.”</p><p>Dean’s smirking at the ceiling now. “And you still think this applies to me?”</p><p>Very seriously, Castiel replies, “There is a part of me that will likely always wonder if that’s the case.” </p><p>The smile on Dean’s face fades almost immediately as he props himself up on his elbow. “Wait—seriously?”</p><p>“Yes, Dean,” Castiel persists, somewhat frustrated. “You have to understand—<em>transference </em> is normal, <em> acting </em> on it is not. It’s unethical, and there’s no way around it. I—In all honestly, I’ve come to terms with the fact that what we’re doing is unethical, because that’s how much I lo—how much I care about you. This isn’t a rejection talk—I just want you to understand. Understand <em> me.</em>” </p><p>Dean’s quiet for a moment, and then he nods, pulling a hand down over his mouth quite thoughtfully. “Alright,” he says. “Alright, well then, let’s do the thing.”</p><p>“The thing?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean repeats, sitting up. “You gave me this whole spiel before. You also told me—again, just now—that the way to get rid of transference for good is to talk it to death. Cas, we’ve talked <em> everything </em> to death. We’ve solved most of my damn problems, and anything else that’s left? The scary stuff in my head? I don’t fucking <em> want </em> to solve that shit with you. At least, not as a doctor. I wanna deal with those issues on some new therapist’s shitty couch, talking to a stranger who wouldn’t risk his life and his whole career just to save my sorry ass. Because that guy who <em> did</em>—there are a lot of <em> way </em>more interesting things I wanna do with him instead.” </p><p>Bringing up the questionable things he’s done isn’t the helpful tidbit Dean thinks it is—to Castiel, it rather proves the point. But Dean’s still rambling, so Castiel lets him go.</p><p>“Maybe—maybe in the beginning, it was a little bit of...that thing. Transference. I know, I get it. I was a mess. Mommy issues, Daddy issues, touch-starved, beat to hell in every sense of the word.” Dean is picking at the comforter, but he glances up and meets Castiel’s gaze dead-on, fury in his eyes. “You’d be right to kick that guy out of your bed. That guy—he didn’t know his heart from his head, from his asshole.” Dean holds up a finger. “Not a pun.” </p><p>He pauses for a moment, clearly thinking about what he wants to say next, so Castiel waits patiently. After all, he taught Dean to do that, the least he can do is listen. “I’m not that guy anymore. And yeah, I see how it’s messy, because I still would be if it wasn’t for you. But Cas, my feelings for you aren’t because I didn’t get enough motherly love or fatherly praise.” Dean pauses, squints a little at the ceiling. “Although, I mean, if you wanna try spanking sometime—”</p><p>“You were doing so well.”</p><p>“Fine, fine.” Dean clears his throat. “I’m scared, Cas. You know why I’m scared? ‘Cause it’d be a hell of a lot easier if what I feel for you could be written off as some therapy-related bullshit that I’ll get over eventually. ‘Nough time and effort,  whatever. Problem is, I <em> did </em> the work. Separated you, the real you, from all that shit I could possibly be projecting. I got to know you, I watched you fight for me. Cas, that day everything went down with Crowley? Couldn’t have been <em> more </em>fucking obvious that you’re not anyone or anything I have in my arsenal to project. I’m not that creative.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Do you think I didn’t try to stop wanting you? Wanting this? Do you think it was <em> easy </em> for me to accept this—whatever we have—between us? Well, I got news for you, Sunshine. It wasn’t. Hardest thing I’ve done all year, and that’s damn well saying something.” Dean gets up on his knees and shuffles closer so that he can grab Castiel by the shoulders and squeeze. “This? You and me? Like it or, <em> believe </em>it or not—this ain’t no projection. This is real.” </p><p>Dean’s so close, Castiel can smell his own minty body wash, his grapefruit-scented shampoo wafting from Dean’s hair, and it <em> does </em>something to him. He has to work to focus on Dean’s words when he continues talking.</p><p>“So our start was fucked up. Who cares? You’re the one who told me that nothing defines my life unless I say it does. If that’s true, then why the hell are you so intent on letting something neither of us could control define our entire relationship? Maybe for the rest of our lives? You told me once that we’re making it up as we go, and I’m holding you to that. You hear me? Capisce?”</p><p>Castiel swallows thickly and nods, because what else can he do? The truth is, he <em> wants </em> Dean to talk him into this. Wants to grab and hold on to the <em> thinnest </em> of reasons why doing this with his former patient is okay, or at least, <em> will </em>be okay in the future. “While I resent the way you’re using my own reasoning and logic against me—and I don’t think this should be the last conversation we have about this topic—yes,” he says slowly. “I capisce.”</p><p>“Good,” Dean says, blowing out a breath and collapsing onto his hip, snug against Castiel’s thigh. This time, it’s him who reaches out to brush fingers down the side of Castiel’s cheek. And that is new—Dean isn’t usually tender for no other reason than he can be.</p><p>“Turn the lights off,” Castiel says suddenly. Dean blinks back at him, confused for a second but swiftly getting with the program as Castiel stands and begins to unbutton his dress shirt.</p><p>“Oh, <em> hell </em> yes,” Dean cheers, fist-pumping as he zips around the room to flick the overhead and the table lamps Castiel has on off, doubling back to pull the curtains. By the time he returns to the bed, eager and <em> happy—</em>so much happier than Castiel’s ever seen him—all Castiel has left on his body are boxers and a plain white tee. </p><p>Their earlier conversation comes back to him suddenly, and Castiel makes a choice to leave his shirt in place. That’s a revelation for another time, a shift in mood and topic he’s simply not interested in provoking just now.</p><p>Lifting the corner of the comforter, Castiel slides underneath as Dean stands there watching, just a shadowy outline in the near-dark. “Are you coming?” Castiel asks, and the words are barely out of his throat before he feels the bottom of the bed dip, followed by Dean clambering up rather enthusiastically to join him. </p><p>There’s no room in this type of dark for Castiel’s misgivings, his worry and his fear. This is <em> his </em> home, a <em> real </em> safe space, and Dean—Dean <em> wants </em> to be here, is so clearly beyond thrilled that he doesn’t have to be alone. Castiel even manages to believe Dean’s words, that it’s not simply a warm body and a bigger place he was looking for tonight—it’s <em> Castiel.  </em></p><p>“Cas,” Dean whispers, for absolutely no reason, which is extremely endearing. “Are we gonna—”</p><p>“We’re not having sex tonight.”</p><p>“Fine,” the shadow that is Dean grumbles, heaving a put-upon sigh. “But—”</p><p>“Come here,” Castiel adds, reaching out to wrap fingers around Dean’s ribs and tug gently. “I know this is—without a doubt—the <em> worst </em> time I could possibly pick to psychoanalyze you. In lieu of that, I’ll ask you just one question and trust that you’ll answer honestly—if only to indulge your anxious partner’s self-professed insecurities. Do you <em> really </em>want to have sex right now?”</p><p>Dean freezes halfway into Castiel’s arms and for a second, Castiel thinks he’s really screwed up. But then—close enough now that the features of his handsome face are visible—Dean’s mouth opens and he whispers, “No.” </p><p>They fall into each other easily after that, Dean naturally tucking himself up against Castiel’s side. His head fits into the crook of Castiel’s neck, the way they were on the beach. Except <em> this </em> is minus all of those layers of pesky clothing. <em> This </em> is on a bed, not a crappy couch in a prison office or a sandy towel on a freezing cold beach. And <em> this </em>is something no one can take from them.</p><p>Dean’s skin is hot under Castiel’s palms, no less so with the thin layer of his shirt between them. As Dean presses as close as humanly possible, Castiel relishes every second. Despite the gravity of their talk only moments prior, Castiel’s all-in for this, his body speaking for him in a way that makes it <em> that </em>much more important he used his words earlier. </p><p>He thinks about all the nights he spent alone here, dreaming about this moment, sure it would never come. Thinks about Dean, suffering alone and scared in his cell but putting on a brave face, and holds him tighter. He remembers the way Dean’s face lit up on that street outside the prison, the way he ran straight into Castiel’s arms, and the quake in his voice when he called himself a burden.</p><p>Dean’s hand wedges itself underneath Castiel’s shoulder to better hold on, his thigh pushing insistently between Castiel’s legs. It’s almost embarrassing how satisfying it feels just to <em> hold </em>Dean, to soothe hands down and over his back, to run fingers through his hair. It’s almost painful how perfectly they fit together.</p><p>There’s no pressing urgency or intent to the way their skin brushes, but it’s not entirely innocent, either. Sooner rather than later, Dean’s hand finds its way to the curve of Castiel’s jaw, drawing him down and into a chaste but lingering kiss. There’s no logic to the way Castiel’s stomach swoops at the contact, the soft drag of Dean’s lips over his own, the gentle way Dean’s palm slips to his neck. </p><p>Castiel’s whole body tingles, and if the shiver from Dean that the next press of their mouths elicits is any clue, he’s not alone. His chest is slightly tight and his breath comes a little short when he says, “In case I wasn’t clear, I’m so <em> very </em>glad you’re here. With the whole world in front of you—”</p><p>“The whole county, anyway.”</p><p>“Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you chose me anyway.”</p><p>Dean’s quiet for a moment, eyes searching as he smiles and tries to brush a too-short lock of hair behind Castiel’s ear. “Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you always had the whole world, and chose me anyway.”</p><p>***</p><p>In the early, pink-skied dawn hours, Dean drags Castiel from dreamland with a nightmare. Still unconscious, he cries out and thrashes, kicking the covers away from the bed and leaving Castiel’s sleep-warmed skin exposed to the chill. It scares Castiel at first, waking him roughly and leaving him confused and disoriented. For a moment, he forgets where he is and why another man is in his bed, though it all comes flooding back like a tidal wave. </p><p>Beside him, Dean quivers, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he mumbles incoherently and feebly bats at some invisible enemy. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Castiel very quickly runs through his options—none of which are great—and (possibly because it’s before six a.m.) chooses the somewhat selfish one.</p><p>Arguably, it <em> might </em> be better to let Dean ride this one out in the hopes that when he wakes, he has no memory of it. On the other hand, he might recall it perfectly, might suffer <em> longer </em>without Castiel’s intervention. Also listed on that hand: the opportunity to comfort a frightened and hurting Dean, and Castiel’s tired brain suggests that one tips the scales.</p><p>He’s careful when he shakes Dean to rouse him, keeping his face out of striking distance and his body poised to pull back quickly. That turns out to be the correct move—at least as far as the mechanics of this thing go—because Dean wakes yelling and angry. He jumps immediately off of the mattress and into a fighting stance while simultaneously fishing underneath his pillow for something that isn’t there—Castiel assumes a homemade weapon of some sort.</p><p>“Dean, Dean,” Castiel says softly, half-kneeling on the bed and with both hands up and outstretched. Half to show that he’s not a threat, half in offering; <em> I’m here for you. </em>Once Dean figures out that he’s not some faceless asshole dream-attacking him, anyway. </p><p>Castiel watches as Dean shakes off the haze of sleep and the clinging shadow of his nightmare that persists into the conscious world, blinking slowly before dragging a hand down over his face. He’s sweaty—his t-shirt clings to the contours of his chest and abdomen, and Castiel has to remind himself that he’s the good guy in this story. Definitely <em> not </em> the asshole lusting after a currently <em> very </em>disinterested and traumatized man.</p><p>“Fuck,” Dean mumbles, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed. Castiel takes that as his cue, crawling across the mattress on his knees and wrapping both arms around Dean’s shoulders from behind. The reaction is immediate—Dean relaxes back into his chest, dropping his head to Castiel’s shoulder and allowing himself to be held. After a minute or two, Castiel shifts his arms so that they’re around Dean’s waist and pulls, dragging him up onto the bed. As soon as they’re settled, he spoons him fully from behind, and Dean just lets him.</p><p>Castiel doesn’t say anything, knowing full-well that Dean doesn’t want to be patronized or given platitudes. He doesn’t tell him that he’s okay, because he clearly isn’t. But after nearly half an hour of simply holding him in silence, when Dean doesn’t speak and his breathing reveals that he hasn’t drifted back off to sleep, a lightbulb goes on as Castiel thinks of something he <em> can </em>do. </p><p>Running gentle fingers down the skin of Dean’s bare arm, he murmurs, “There’s a place I’d really like for you to see. Any chance you’d want to go for a ride?”</p><p>Dean rolls over, relief written plainly on his lovely face. “God, Cas. I thought you’d never ask.”</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Dean finally has something to offer Cas, and it's not <i>just</i> an attempt at sex that doesn't end as planned. Plus: Montage! Dean adjusts to life beyond bars, and a second attempt at intimacy which goes <i>far</i> better than the first.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It’s chilly this morning, but the coastal air feels fresh and relieving after that shitty wakeup call. Dean shifts on his feet and wonders how obvious it is that he’s working crazy hard to will down a semi before it’s time to press his crotch up against Cas ass.</p>
<p>In his defense, Cas’s ride is fucking <i>hot</i>. In fact, Dean would be lying if he claimed that seeing the guy in his riding gear, nonchalantly standing next to all that leather and chrome didn’t make him like, three times sexier than he already was. Which—Cas did <i>not</i> need any help in that department, and Dean is suffering. </p>
<p>“Ready?” Cas asks, as he swings his leg over the seat of the bike and pats the space behind him. “Hop on.” </p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I want to apologize for this chapter being late, but it is 13k so you have to forgive me, it's the law. But also, if you follow my <a href="https://twitter.com/caslostwings">Twitter</a> then you may have seen my poll/struggle to decide whether to post normally on Friday or hold off to include the smut scene. As you can see, the smut won out, and I think it was the right decision. If an update doesn't come as scheduled, it's a good bet I've told people why <a href="https://twitter.com/caslostwings">over there</a>, so feel free to follow if you are interested in that sort of thing. </p>
<p>That said, this was a really tough chapter to write, a lot of fine lines to walk, and I'm very grateful to Jen (<a href="https://twitter.com/coinofstone">aka coinofstone</a>) and Chrisha (<a href="https://twitter.com/drfangirlphd">aka Dr. Fangirl</a>) for the help and support.</p>
<p>Down to business: for those who have followed my other smutty WIPs, you know there are usually *two* sections of chapter warnings when the update is explicit! If you normally scroll past chapter warnings but would *not* scroll past specific SEX tags, please take note below. I'll put them first.</p>
<p>Sex-Related Tags/Warnings:<br/>—&gt;Vague mention of prep/enemas, rimming, anal fingering, saliva, blowjobs, cum swallowing, no condom/protection, masturbation, facials. VERY minor and brief dom/sub vibes</p>
<p>Regular chapter warnings:<br/>Chapter Warnings:<br/>—&gt;a sex attempt that goes wrong, as Dean has major PTSD triggers and thinks he can steamroll past them. That doesn’t work. He freaks out and dissociates, Cas comforts him. This scene may be quite triggering for anyone who has been assaulted and subsequently struggled to be intimate again.<br/>—&gt;mental health discussions, references to therapy, dissociation, and various kinds of recovery.<br/>—&gt;unsure how obvious it is, but reminder that Dean was tested for STIs prior to leaving the prison. He and Cas do discuss his results and decide together not to use condoms prior to the sex scene. This is referenced, but I wanted to make it clear.<br/>—&gt;brief argument/misunderstanding<br/>—&gt;brief mention of nightmares and Dean’s routine coping process</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean doesn’t know whether Castiel realized that despite his (<em>extremely </em>comforting) presence, the walls were still closing in fast and hard. No matter what relaxation techniques Dean tried, no matter how committed he was to willing himself back into the gaping galaxy of unconsciousness, his brain simply wasn’t playing along. Actually, fuck playing along, his brain was being a downright asshole.</p>
<p>The best Dean could do was try and keep his shit slow and steady. Focus on the <em> in and out, in and out </em> of air entering and leaving his lungs, the soft comfort of the mattress below, the weight of Cas’ strong arms bracketing his body, and the constant <em> thump, thump, thump </em>of Cas’ heart beating against his back. </p>
<p>It was almost desperate, the way a part of Dean wanted to flee. Wanted to bust out from the protective cage of Cas’ embrace and go tearing down the street shoeless until he had definitive <em> proof </em>that no one was going to try and stop him. </p>
<p>Whether Cas sensed that or not—maybe he was just tired of forcing himself to lay quietly in bed next to the mess that was Dean—didn’t even matter. His offer to take Dean for a ride couldn’t have been more welcome <em> or </em>on point. And since it was Saturday and Cas didn’t have work (and Dean didn’t have parole officers to please), there was nothing standing in their way.</p>
<p>Obviously, Dean assumed that they were taking Baby, but Cas had other ideas in mind. <em> Awesome </em>ideas.</p>
<p>“The heaviest pair of jeans you have, a sweatshirt for warmth, gloves if you own them, and your leather jacket,” Cas instructed, when Dean asked if there was a dress code for their outing. He dressed himself in the same, and if Dean drooled a little over casual-Castiel, scruffy and unshaven, wearing freaking <em> jeans, </em>a hoodie, and his own leather bomber jacket—no competent jury in the world would dare penalize him for it. After all the oversized ugly sweaters Cas subjected him to, Dean was pretty sure he was entitled.</p>
<p>“Roger,” Dean replied, managing to source everything surprisingly easily from his boxes. Tugging the ensemble on and ignoring the strangeness of choosing his own clothes, he barely paid attention as Castiel went digging inside his own boxes for God knows what.</p>
<p>Honestly, Dean was ready for anything, so long as it meant getting <em> outside </em> for a bit. Still, he couldn’t help but balk when Cas met him at the door with a <em> helmet. </em> Two, actually, but one specifically for Dean. A full-face number, with a shield and everything. His hesitation lasted only for a second though, his still-addled brain somewhat slow on the uptake. As soon as he put two and two together—<em>a drive and a helmet—</em>nothing short of hearing that his parole had been revoked could have wiped the smile from Dean’s face.</p>
<p>“Hope you’re ready to hold on tight,” Cas said with a wink, opening the door and ushering Dean outside before he could so much as react to <em> that</em>.</p>
<p>Which brings them to here and now, with Cas fussing over his bike and whatever he’s jamming into the saddlebags while Dean stands awkwardly nearby. It’s chilly this morning, but the coastal air feels fresh and relieving after that shitty wakeup call. Dean shifts on his feet and wonders how obvious it is that he’s working crazy hard to will down a semi before it’s time to press his crotch up against Cas ass.</p>
<p>In his defense, Cas’s ride is fucking <em> hot. </em> In fact, Dean would be lying if he claimed that seeing the guy in his riding gear, nonchalantly standing next to all that leather and chrome didn’t make him like, three times sexier than he already was. Which—Cas did <em> not </em>need any help in that department, and Dean is suffering. </p>
<p>“Ready?” Cas asks, as he swings his leg over the seat of the bike and pats the space behind him. “Hop on.” </p>
<p>It’s yet another thing that absolutely <em> no one </em>but Cas could get away with saying unironically. And Dean would absolutely razz him about that—but, priorities. Cas revs the engine, and Dean’s automatically shift. He jams the helmet onto his head and tucks himself in behind Cas, both arms wound tight around his middle with not one ounce of shame about it.</p>
<p>“Lean with me, unless I tell you otherwise,” Cas calls out, through his helmet and over the throaty growl of the bike’s engine, and then they’re off. </p>
<p>Within minutes of being out on the road, Dean forgets to worry about his dick because <em> holy hell, </em> riding with Cas is fucking awesome. Twelve hours ago, he would have gone toe-to-toe with anyone who even <em> suggested </em> another machine could compete with his Baby for joyriding fun, but <em> damn, </em>this is a close second. </p>
<p>Plus, Cas drives like a freaking pro. He rides like the bike is a part of him, relaxed and in control, zipping through town and around curves like he’s lived here his entire life. Dean never feels nervous or scared—on the contrary, he feels safe, taken care of, able to zone out and enjoy this new adventure while Cas takes the wheel. </p>
<p>As they move down the main street that runs parallel to the boardwalk, Dean catches glimpses of the beach and the ocean beyond. It’s a hell of a thing to have access to, to be able to experience first thing in the morning this way. With the wind in his face, the lack of walls of any kind, the salty scent of the air, and all of Dean’s favorite things around him, he very quickly starts to feel better. As the sun rises over the horizon, the lingering effects of his nightmare dissipate completely.</p>
<p>Dean hardly has a chance to settle into enjoying the way Cas’ muscles shift as he pilots the bike—has <em> just </em> discovered that he can get his hands under Cas’ layers to rest on his bare stomach—when Mr. Hell’s Angels himself brings them to a stop on a residential street. He wasn’t exactly paying attention (Cas’ ab muscles <em> flex </em>when the bike turns), but Dean’s pretty sure they’re only a block or so west of the beach.</p>
<p>Cas drops the kickstand and lets Dean dismount first, both of them pulling their helmets off as they go. He turns, taking Dean’s from his hands and balancing it on the seat of the motorcycle next to his own before unapologetically stepping into Dean’s space. Curling a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, Cas’ voice is low and rough when he says, “I enjoyed that tremendously. You?” </p>
<p>“Pretty much the only way you’re gonna turn me into a willing passenger,” Dean replies, smiling as he brushes their noses together. He drags his bottom lip through his teeth and watches as Cas tracks the movement, his gaze turning heady and interested. “It’s not that serious,” Dean whispers. “Kiss me, if that’s what you want.” </p>
<p>“Were I to follow that logic, I fear we’d never do anything else.”</p>
<p>Huffing a small laugh, Dean leans in and closes the distance between them himself. Arousal sparks in his belly as Cas’ mouth slides against his, gentle but fervent, parting Dean’s lips and flicking just the tip of his tongue in between. </p>
<p>Yeah, Dean understands the sentiment—he could do this all damn day, too. </p>
<p>The scratch of Cas’ stubble heats the skin around his lips as Cas nuzzles before he pulls away, looking wistful. Dean watches as Cas licks his lips like he’s savoring the taste, dragging a thumb just below Dean’s mouth to rub away a bit of wetness there. </p>
<p>“Uh...why did we leave your bed, again?” </p>
<p>Cas rolls his eyes but his smile never falters as his hand drops to grab Dean’s, dragging him around the bike and up onto the curb. In front of them sits a pretty cute little house, mix of yellow wooden shingles and stone on the sides, nice front porch, meticulous landscaping. The kind of place Dean would have <em> killed </em>to grow up in, the kind of place he always wished he could have afforded to give Sam. </p>
<p>“<em>This </em>is the dump you’re avoiding moving into? Cas, no offense, but that rich-boy upbringing left you with brain damage if you think this is...What’d you call it? A disaster pit full of tears? Dude.” </p>
<p>Next to him, Cas stops short and closes his eyes before taking a deep breath and blowing it out. When he opens them, he’s glaring at Dean. “You are attractive, and have many good qualities,” he says, before yanking Dean forward and across the lawn, up onto the porch. The boards creak ominously under their feet.</p>
<p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean demands, petulantly folding his arms across his chest while Cas fiddles with the lock. He doesn’t get an answer, but when the door swings open, Cas steps aside with his eyebrows raised and motions for Dean to go ahead of him. </p>
<p>Dean eats his words <em> and </em> his irritation the second he steps over the threshold. Glancing around, he can hardly believe this is the same <em> house </em> he was standing in front of just seconds prior. In fact, he nearly backs out of the doorway just to check, lest he discover the opening is actually a portal to a parallel universe. To Dean, it looks like a band of rowdy rockstars threw an afterparty in here—if that party happened a <em> decade </em>ago and no one touched the place since.</p>
<p>“Holy fuck,” Dean says, following his pronouncement with a whistle as he wanders around and tries to fully digest the situation at hand. </p>
<p>Trash and pieces of dirty fabric that might once have been blankets or towels litter the floor, piling up in the corners. Mold and other staining climbs the walls and drips down from the ceiling, at least onto the drywall that still <em> exists. </em> One entire side of what Dean assumes is the living room is just <em> gone, </em>leaving Dean a perfect view of the kitchen, which is not in any better shape.</p>
<p>His back is still to Cas, and while his first instinct is to turn around and say, <em> what the fuck is wrong with you for buying this, </em> Dean refrains. He remembers the way Cas talked about this place last night, how forlorn and depressed he sounded, and decides needling or joking is probably not what the guy needs right now. The thing is, for <em> once</em>, Dean actually <em> has </em>something in his arsenal to offer besides sarcasm and unhelpful mockery, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t excited about that.</p>
<p>“I dunno why you brought me here,” Dean starts as he turns on his heel. A cloud of dirt puffs up by his ankles as he does, and Cas’ face drops, his disappointment obvious as he anticipates Dean’s rejection. “But Cas, I think you should know—I can fix this.”</p>
<p>“That’s alr—wait. You what? You can...you think you can <em> fix </em>this mess?” </p>
<p>God, the look on Cas’ face is worth messing with him. Dean strides quickly across the room as he nods to drag him in for a reassuring kiss. “Oh yeah, sunshine. You came to the right place.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Dean always had to be handy, growing up. The kinds of places he and Sam lived (<em>crashed) </em> didn’t have supers who gave a shit, didn’t have maintenance dudes who came down at 3 a.m. when the toilet was overflowing. If being Mom <em> and </em> Dad to Sam wasn’t enough, Dean had to be everything else, too. Plumber, electrician, mechanic. He had to do it <em> all. </em>Even before their dad died, that was just the way things were.</p>
<p>If something was wrong with the Impala, Dean had to fix it. If they wanted A.C. in the summer at one of their ten-dollar-per-night motels, Dean had to be the one to make the dead box on the wall functional. If the shower dripped instead of sprayed, <em> Dean </em>had to take it apart and figure out what the fuck its problem was. </p>
<p>And then there was the fact that he knew copper like the back of his hand—not that he’s proud of it—because stealing copper from abandoned houses was an easy way to keep Sam in Lucky Charms and blue boxes of mac and cheese. Shoes, if it was a bad month and the kid hit another freaking growth spurt. </p>
<p>It’s why Dean <em> didn’t </em> feel guilty that weekend he spent fucking off for his birthday. He did <em> everything, </em> he was a responsible adult at sixteen years old. He worked his ass off and was learning, becoming <em> more </em>useful by the day. The guys at the fire station even boosted his knowledge about machinery and construction. Simple stuff, maintenance stuff, like repairing the drywall after someone accidentally put a crowbar through it or checking fluid levels on the trucks—that shit was second nature to a teenaged Dean.</p>
<p>Point being, Dean is and always has been handy. <em> Finally, </em> he can use that to help someone who really needs it, who he <em> owes </em>a debt of gratitude. </p>
<p>Cas gets really excited when Dean tells him all this, shoving him up against the wall and kissing him breathless until Dean points out that’s probably not the <em> best </em>idea, considering what they’re likely inhaling. </p>
<p>“Right,” Cas says, brow furrowing. “Is that—going to be a problem?” </p>
<p>“Respirators are a thing, Cas,” Dean replies, patting him on the head. “Listen, run into town and grab us a couple of coffees and some breakfast. I’m gonna take a better look around, make some mental notes. We can work out what to tackle first and how when you get back.” </p>
<p>“Don’t forget that you have your phone,” Cas reminds him, as he’s walking out the door. “It’s in your jacket pocket. You can type your notes right into it.”</p>
<p>Dean did forget. He’s been so long without personal electronic devices, it’s no longer second nature to reach for his phone every five seconds, the way he used to do. The roar of Cas’ motorcycle starts up and then fades into the background as he drives away, and Dean swipes open his screen.</p>
<p>There’s a message from Sam waiting—nothing important, just checking in and giving Dean shit for lying about his court date, their normal banter. Dean grins as he shoots back an equally sassy message, not quite apologizing but also promising to come up and visit him and Bobby soon. As an afterthought—and though he hates to get all chick-flick moment with his brother—Dean types out an unusually heartfelt thank you regarding Baby. He pockets the phone before Sam can reply and embarrass him further.</p>
<p>Dean spends the next half hour perusing the house—it’s not <em> as </em>bad as he initially thought, but it’s definitely going to take a significant amount of work to renovate. Most of the wiring needs to be redone, but it’s not overly complicated—Dean thinks they could probably hire an actual electrician to get the place up to code and then he could do the rest. The plumbing is leaky in areas, but that’s not a difficult fix. New PVC piping, new drywall, new paint, fresh tilework and fixtures in the bathrooms, whole new kitchen—appliances will be a decent expense.</p>
<p>The upstairs bedroom is in the best shape of anything, which is a nice surprise. It’s lacking all the trash and random items strewn around the first floor, it’s just empty and a little funky-smelling. On the plus side, the floors up there are hardwood—no nasty carpets—which is a plus and bodes well for the first floor. It also has an ensuite that’s dated as hell (<em>pink tile) </em> but holds major potential. </p>
<p><em> Alright, </em> Dean thinks, as he stands in the middle of the master, squinting with concern at a large brown stain on the ceiling. He can tell that he’s in over his head, but in a <em> good </em> way, a way that he can use his hands and his head to <em> fix. </em> This is a challenge, but the best kind. It’s something that Dean didn’t realize until it was put in front of him that he <em> wanted—</em>maybe even needed—but he’s starting to suspect that Cas (as always) knew better.</p>
<p>Not for nothing, but he’d finally get to help Cas in a tangible way, too.</p>
<p>It’s not <em> just </em>going to be a lot of work, though, fixing this place up. It’s a decent chunk of change, too. As Dean roams around, making notes (in his head, fuck the phone), a plan begins to take shape about how they might make that happen. And while it’s possible that Dean has Cas all wrong, he thinks it’s far more likely that Cas knew this is exactly where Dean’s mind would go.</p>
<p>If it’s possible, Dean’s feelings for Cas grow and solidify even more with that realization. It makes him determined as hell to turn this—<em>what did Cas call it?—pit of despair </em> into his dream home. And maybe, if he’s <em> lucky </em>(if his luck holds out), it could be Dean’s dream home, too. </p>
<p>The roar of Cas’ bike turning the corner and cutting off outside the house filters in through the thin walls and glass, snapping Dean out of his reverie. With more hope in his heart than he’s had in ages, Dean heads downstairs to meet him.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Between bites of his breakfast burrito, Cas scuffs his feet on the cement path that leads away from the porch. His legs are hanging down over the steps where he’s sitting at the edge, happily looking out over the street. Admittedly, Dean’s been watching Cas more than he’s been paying attention to his own breakfast, so sue him. The shine of being free <em> with </em>Cas by his side hasn’t remotely worn off, and Dean doesn’t see that happening any time soon. </p>
<p>“I had nightmares myself, you know,” Cas says, ultra-casual. His mouth is half-full of food when he speaks, and that’s another thing that surprises Dean. He always assumed that Cas would have impeccable manners, but as it turns out, he’s just as gross as Dean is. That pleases Dean so much that he feels a little ridiculous about it. </p>
<p>“How the hell would I know that?” he retorts, chomping away at his own sandwich and not remotely self-conscious about it.</p>
<p>Castiel rolls his eyes and skates past Dean’s bullshit. His voice is light and matter-of-fact despite the subject matter, and because of that, Dean believes him when he says he’s past it. “My upbringing—and everything that came with it—haunted me the same way your recent traumas haunt you. Do you know when things began to get better?”</p>
<p>“I think I can take a stab in the dark.”</p>
<p>Cas nods and wipes his mouth with a napkin, crumpling the burrito wrapper and tossing it from hand to hand. “When my life became focused around helping others, the frequency of my nightmares lessened and finally stopped. Perhaps I shouldn’t have internalized the crimes of my family members, but as we have discussed many times, trauma is not logical. It does not care what we ‘should’ or ‘should not’ feel.” </p>
<p>Dean pops the last of his own sandwich into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, leaning back with his hands planted on the porch. “I’m guessing the moral of this story is not that I should become a therapist.” Cas is smiling, but the looks he gives Dean is pointed. “Right, fine. Alright, I’m not an idiot. I gotta...take back control of my life, not feel so useless and vulnerable, and this could be a good start. While you were gone, I was thinking. You know how I feel about Cain’s money, but putting a chunk of it towards helping you and <em> creating </em>something good, something real that we could maybe build together—I dunno. Could be worth it.” </p>
<p>“Could perhaps change how you feel about that money, after all.”</p>
<p>Shrugging, Dean sips from his takeaway coffee—perfectly made. “Wouldn’t go <em> that </em>far. But I want to help you, and no offense, but it kinda seems like you’re in over your head with no exit plan here.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I am.” </p>
<p>“Sounds familiar.” Cas responds by winking at him in that terrible way he does, and Dean suppresses the urge to laugh. “You’re adorable, you know that?” </p>
<p>That has him flushing. “I don’t—that’s not of import.” </p>
<p>Alright, <em> now </em>Dean can’t help laughing. “God, Cas, you’re something else,” he says.</p>
<p>The smile on Cas’ face widens and then falters. “Just to be clear,” he says, dropping a hand to Dean’s thigh, “It’s not about the money, for me. I’m happy to finance the entire project. I just thought it might...be helpful for you—for several reasons—to contribute. If you simply wanted to do the work, I could pay for the renovation, and I could pay you. There’s no pressure to—”</p>
<p>“I get it,” Dean replies, cutting him off. “I wanna pay my own way. That’s part of this whole thing, right? And Cas, not for nothing, but you kind of already moved me in with you last night. You going back on that?”</p>
<p>“Are you?”</p>
<p>“Not a fucking chance.”</p>
<p>Cas grins. “Then I’m happy to tell you that if you <em> wish </em>to put your own money towards this project, I will also be happy to add you to the deed. We can wait until it’s finished—if something happens or you change your mind, I hope you know that you can trust me to pay you what’s owed.” </p>
<p>Dean snorts. “Cas, if you wanted to screw me over, I can think of a thousand easier ways than the million steps it took to get us here and rope me into fixing your ill-purchased house. I trust you. Helps that I’m not sure I want Cain’s money back, though.” </p>
<p>“Dean,” Castiel scolds. </p>
<p>“What? I’m being <em> honest. </em>You love honesty.” Dean grins smugly and then abruptly remembers the bedroom space. “Hey—you haven’t been upstairs yet, have you?”</p>
<p>Narrowing his eyes, Castiel slowly shakes his head. “Do I even want to ask? I’m afraid.”</p>
<p>Wordlessly, Dean grabs his hand and tugs until Cas stands. When they’re both vertical and their breakfast trash is stuffed into the carryout bag, Dean picks up the blanket they were sitting on (<em>that’s </em>what Cas was stuffing in his saddlebag) and tucks it under his armpit. He hangs onto it as he leads Cas into the house and up to the second story.</p>
<p>“Check it out,” he says, as they stand in the doorway at the top of the stairs. Dean tips his chin towards the center of the room in suggestion, and Cas’ eyes follow. </p>
<p><em> Skeptical </em> doesn’t begin to describe the look on Castiel’s face, but he steps through the doorway anyway on Dean’s instruction. “Oh,” he remarks, expression morphing swiftly into one of pleased surprise. “This is not nearly as disastrous as the downstairs. A brand new bed and—” His nose wrinkles. “—<em>several </em> bottles of both bleach and Febreze, and one could probably make it through the night here without vomiting. Resident creatures looking to devour guests in their sleep notwithstanding.” </p>
<p>Laughing, Dean slips an arm around his shoulders and squeezes. “C’mon, sunshine. It ain’t as bad as all that. I’ve stayed in motels that make this place look like a Hilton.”</p>
<p>“I never trusted the Hiltons,” Castiel replies, very seriously.</p>
<p>“I dunno,” Dean shrugs. “Paris seems pretty cool. Everyone thinks she’s a bimbo, but dumbasses don’t become millionaires. Mark my words—that chick is playing <em> everyone, </em>she’s smart as hell under all that hair.” </p>
<p>Castiel turns his head to squint up at Dean. “Did you have Netflix in prison?” </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Never mind.” </p>
<p>“Anyway—check this out.” Dean loosens his grip on Cas’ shoulders to lead him over to the window. There’s a dirty, gauzy curtain there, left behind by whoever was the last legitimate resident of this house. Dean starts to pull it aside and then thinks better of it, yanking it down off of the wall, curtain rod and all. </p>
<p>Castiel is momentarily distracted by Dean’s unexpected minor demo, but Dean gently guides his attention back towards the glass and beyond that, the view. </p>
<p>“Oh,” Castiel remarks, soft and pleased, the little crinkles around his eyes deepening as he takes it all in. “I didn’t realize.”</p>
<p>“The beach!” Dean declares happily, rapping on the glass as Cas continues to stare. “You snagged an ocean view, baby.”</p>
<p>“Let this be a lesson,” Castiel murmurs. “Sometimes fear and anxiety prevent you from seeing the good in a situation at all. I can’t believe this is here.” </p>
<p>“Believe it,” Dean says, and the gravity of his reply seems to sink in with Castiel just as soon as the words leave his mouth. Cas turns, leaning his shoulder into Dean’s chest to tip his head up and press their lips together.</p>
<p>“Indeed,” he replies, though it’s muffled by Dean turning Cas’ soft little kiss into something more serious. Dean palms the side of his face, turning and walking him backward until he’s up against the wall. Cas happily lets him—making small little moans of pleasure when Dean licks into his mouth, when fingers wrap around his hip. </p>
<p>It’s quiet in the little house, the neighbors still weekend-sleepy around them. No main roads for cars to go tearing past, no crowds of tourists headed for the beach, and they’re not close enough to town to be bothered by the breakfast rush. It’s just Dean and Cas, the rustle of their clothing, and the sounds they’re making together. </p>
<p>Dean’s never felt ambiguous about kissing Castiel. Never had any of that nasty, sinking sensation that creeps into the edges of his mind when he thinks about <em> sex </em>in any form. Kissing Cas is pure goodness, a tangible ray of sunshine, a feeling put into action that everything and then some is right with the world.</p>
<p>Knowing <em> that </em> makes Dean brave, makes him sure that going <em> farther </em>with Cas now won’t trigger any of those anxiety-laced emotions. That shit is nightmare fuel anyway, not stuff that tough guys like Dean need to worry about in the daylight. And regardless, Dean’s confident that his issues with sex (or really, not wanting sex) were situation-based and nothing more.</p>
<p><em> Weren’t they? </em> He didn’t want <em> Benny </em> because Benny was sewn into the fabric of the nightmare. <em> Benny, </em>as an idea, was inseparable from the Bay and everything Dean hated about his life, attractive as Dean might have found him in some other time and place. </p>
<p>But now—that’s over, that’s all behind him. Both his prison days and his life as an unwilling sex worker are as good as ancient history, so it’s not like Dean has a <em>reason </em>to still have issues. To still be so hung up on what happened to him that he’s going to let it affect an <em>awesome, </em>unrelated thing that he knows he wants. A thing that is currently being offered up on a silver platter, his for the taking.</p>
<p><em> That </em>thought conjures a related one of Cas naked and spread out on a silver platter, which reminds Dean that he has no business being all up in his head right now.</p>
<p>“Dean?” Cas is saying, stroking down the side of his jaw with gentle fingers. “Dean, we don’t—”</p>
<p>Whatever dumb out Cas was going to give, Dean cuts him off with a pretty ferocious kiss. He fists his hands into the stupid-hot motorcycle jacket Cas is still wearing, really pinning him against the wall with his own body. Dean closes his eyes, opens his mouth, kisses Cas hot and wet and sloppy, thrills when Cas groans and arousal courses through his veins. </p>
<p>“Want you real bad,” he mutters against Cas’ cheek, leaving a damp mark where his tongue darts out to taste the tanned skin. “Want, I want—” <em> Cas’ skin on his, his body, the taste of him flooding Dean’s mouth. </em> And suddenly, that’s all Dean wants—<em>needs—</em>and he’ll do anything to get it.</p>
<p>Capturing Cas’ lips again, Dean shoves at his jacket, pushing it down, off of his broad shoulders. He gets impatient when the leather and the fit gets it stuck halfway down Cas’ arms. Leaving Cas to struggle on his own, Dean moves on to unbuttoning Cas’ dress shirt and the front of his pants. </p>
<p>“I want you too, Dean,” Cas manages, once Dean stops nipping and sucking at his already-swollen mouth to drift down his neck and over his collarbone. His voice is soft and reassuring, and Dean isn’t stupid enough to try and look him in the eyes right now. No way that wouldn’t do him in. “I—Oh, Dean, I—”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Dean says, capturing Cas’ mouth again because he’s smart enough to be afraid of what Cas is going to say next. Smart enough to know he’s acting a <em> little </em> too wild, a <em> little </em>too aggressive, but Cas’ dick is filling out under Dean’s hand and he’s half-hard in his own pants, so things are going well, aren’t they? </p>
<p>
  <em> Aren’t they?  </em>
</p>
<p>Dean patently ignores the warning alarms firing in his head, presses forward and shoves them aside by shrugging off his own jacket and pulling off his shirts. They land on the floor in a heap as Cas finally loses the jacket, hands flying to explore Dean’s newly-freed body. Likewise, Cas’ chest is exposed now—though his shirt is still half-on, dangling from his shoulders—and Dean wraps an arm around his back to maximize their skin-on-skin. He licks into Cas’ mouth, trying to pour all of his emotion and feelings into the touch, hoping Cas gets it. </p>
<p>“C’mon, Cas,” he murmurs, slotting a knee in between Cas’ legs and grabbing a handful of ass with his free hand. “C’mon, c’mon, <em> c’mon</em>.” He’s still kissing Cas roughly, trying to encourage him to grind on his thigh, pushing his pelvis into Cas’ body rhythmically when Dean abruptly realizes that Cas has <em> stopped. </em>Just—stopped.</p>
<p>“Cas, c’mon,” he repeats, grabbing at Cas’ body, his shirt, while the world and Cas’ face distort and turn fuzzy in front of him. “Come <em> on, </em> come on, <em> please.”  </em></p>
<p>Dean doesn’t realize he’s going down until he’s already on the ground. Just like that, Cas is yanking him into his lap and <em> not </em>in the sexy way Dean spent more than one afternoon in the yard and most of this morning imagining. Cas’ strong arms are winding around him and Cas is murmuring sweet, soft things—he’s perfect; sensitive and caring, gentle and understanding as all get out. </p>
<p>God, Dean <em> hates </em>it.</p>
<p>It’s then that the blurry vision, the wetness on his face starts to make sense, and Dean unwittingly lets out a pained, <em> animal </em> noise that he’ll <em> never </em>fucking acknowledge came from him until his dying day.</p>
<p>“No—<em>fuck,” </em> he yells, breaking free from the cage that Cas’ arms have turned into—Dean’s very abruptly <em> never </em>wanted to be touched less.</p>
<p>He scrambles to his feet, breathing hard and suddenly humiliated that he’s half-naked, that’s he’s so damn <em> weak, </em> that he’s such a fucking <em> victim. </em> Furious and still tearful (which only makes him angrier), Dean paces the length of the room with his hands in his hair, breathing hard and unable to find an outlet for all these fucking <em> feelings.  </em></p>
<p>“Dean, it’s alr—”</p>
<p>That’s the straw that breaks him, that pushes Dean over the edge, and before he knows it, there’s a hole in Cas’ bedroom wall and Dean’s fist is stuck inside of it. He yanks it back out, bleeding and covered in dirty drywall pieces, and he can’t recognize the hand as his own. It’s strange and foreign and not attached to his body, and Dean stares down at the bloody mess, confused.</p>
<p>As quickly as it came, all of that rage and the accompanying feelings of helplessness—of being <em> dirty </em> and wrong and in pain—go rushing out of him. It’s like someone released the plugged drain of a bathtub without warning—it’s all just... <em> gone </em>and Dean is left deflated and empty. </p>
<p>With some trepidation, he looks up from his hand to find Cas standing a careful double arms-length distance away. His face is full of sorrow but not fear, and definitely not anger. He’s disheveled as hell; shirt hanging haphazardly off of one shoulder, pants open, hair sticking up in all directions. He’s got swollen, bright red lips and love bites covering his neck and upper chest, and he looks like he couldn’t care less about any of it. </p>
<p>No, Cas is focused solely on Dean, one hand held palm-up in offering, just waiting.</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry,” Dean croaks, his legs suddenly feeling rather unsteady, like jelly. His heart is still beating too fast in his chest, the beat loud in his ears, but the world is less cloudy, less surreal as the seconds tick on. “I’m so—”</p>
<p>Across the room, Cas’ face turns stormy. “No,” he says, striding forward, still cautious but also full of intent. “We are not going to do that. May I touch you? You can say no.” </p>
<p>“I don’t want to say no,” Dean replies, and he means it—whatever sent him into this death spiral and made Cas’ touch feel terrifying and <em> wrong, </em>it’s gone—completely.</p>
<p>“I believe that’s the issue here,” Cas replies. He inches closer anyway, one hand still held out like Dean is a wild animal who might spook. </p>
<p>Dean closes his eyes, rubs the heel of his clean palm into one eye and shakes his head. “I’m—I’m not alright,” he confesses, and it feels <em> painful </em>to admit. “But I’m—I’m here, I’m back. Cas, please hold me.” </p>
<p>Before Dean can even lower his hands fully, Cas is scooping him up, hugging him tight. He’s tucking Dean’s face into the crook of his neck and when Dean inhales, it’s <em> Cas, </em> sweat and watermelon and that earthy smell that’s just <em> him. </em>Being this close to Cas feels like comfort and home—the way Dean’s used to Cas feeling—and nothing else. There’s no uncomfortable nightmare fuel creeping at the corners of his mind, just him and Cas, and skin-to-skin that’s everything Dean dreamed it would be.</p>
<p>“Something’s wrong with me,” Dean whispers, his eyes burning as he does his best to will the tears back.</p>
<p>“Nothing’s <em> wrong </em>with you,” Cas insists, holding him tighter and soothing a hand down his spine. It feels comforting, not gross or intrusive at all, which is relieving to Dean. “You’ve experienced trauma and it’s affected you. That’s not your fault and it certainly doesn’t make you damaged. I told you, Dean—recovery is a process.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to recover,” Dean tells Cas’ neck, wrapping his own arms around Cas’ torso and squeezing. “I don’t want to give up any more of my life, my <em> time </em> to this bullshit. It fucking <em> sucks. </em> I don’t want you to think that I don’t <em> want </em>you.” </p>
<p>“I don’t think that,” Cas replies simply. </p>
<p>Dean sighs, and it comes out rough and haggard, which is embarrassing. He sniffs and clears his throat, but he doesn’t pull away. “I just...Cas, I wanna be <em> me. </em>”</p>
<p>“You are,” Cas assures him, threading fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Dean’s breath puffs hot between them, and a tear falls from the corner of his eye onto Cas’ bare skin. “In the end, we all are who we are, no matter how much we may appear to have changed. Needing some assistance and <em> time </em> to help you remember that, to feel comfortable <em> being </em>yourself again—there’s no shame in that, Dean.”  </p>
<p>Dean’s quiet, his chest full of emotions that are too big, too much, and while he trusts Cas, he’s not entirely sure that if he opens his mouth again, they won’t spill out. After everything that’s happened this morning, he’s just not ready for that kind of vulnerability. Thankfully, Cas seems to understand, stroking his hair and holding him without demand or judgement. </p>
<p>“I promise,” he says, answering the question Dean’s too chicken to ask. “I’ll wait. I won’t leave. I can tell you that I don’t care if we ever have sex, but I do know that one, you won’t believe me, and two, that may feel like I’m—I’m giving up on something you <em> do </em>place importance on.”</p>
<p>Dean snorts. “God, do you get me.” </p>
<p>“Castiel,” Cas corrects. “And yes, I would hope so.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “Time,” he continues softly. “I know that isn’t the answer you want. Time and better therapy, of which you have your first appointment on Monday, after your meeting with the parole officer. Can you wait until then, or shall I call in the only professional chit I have, which is the ability to arrange an emergency weekend session at the drop of a hat?” </p>
<p>Dean pulls back, actually smiling again, to cup Castiel’s face. “Thank you,” he says seriously, leaning in to press a kiss to Castiel’s forehead, before replacing his mouth with his own head. “Just...thanks.” </p>
<p>“You’re welcome,” Castiel replies, brushing their noses together. “I’m not going anywhere.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>To Dean’s relief, that mess of a first morning of freedom is as dramatic as things get. Going forward, he and Cas actually fall into a regular routine pretty easily. Dean likes his new therapist, who ends up not being a guy at all. Her name is Mia, and she’s a soft-spoken black woman around Dean’s own age. She’s kind and she listens with an unfussy, unflappable openness that for some godforsaken reason makes Dean <em> want </em>to talk.</p>
<p>And he does—want to talk, that is. As hard as opening up might be for him, Dean meant what he told Cas that morning in the house. He wants <em> himself </em> back, wants to be the person he was before Crowley ever came near him. Not only that, but he wants to be the kind of man <em> Cas </em> deserves, wants to be able to give Cas all the things they <em> both </em>want and need. </p>
<p>So Dean talks and Mia listens, and while at first nothing gets better, the world keeps turning and Cas doesn’t leave or kick him to the curb. Change is slow but constant, and Dean doesn’t necessarily realize it’s occurring until one day, something is different.</p>
<p>Weeks into his new sessions, it occurs to Dean that those spacey, unreal moments that continued to persist outside the prison walls actually <em> have </em> lessened, to the point where they’re barely happening anymore. Mia’s explained that—to Dean’s chagrin—those <em> are </em>classic dissociation signs, which means he never stopped doing it after all.</p>
<p>That’s a sucky realization. On the other hand, at least when Dean tells Cas that he really <em> is </em> dissociating less these days, it’s finally true. </p>
<p>But Dean’s life doesn’t revolve around therapy—it’s just something he does, a part of his life like anything else. Same with his parole officer meetings—twice a week, including a urine test for drugs—Dean hardly even resents them anymore. How can he, when he’s <em> free </em> and those things are a small price to pay for that? A tiny, <em> minuscule </em>price to fall asleep next to Cas at night and wake up curled around him in the morning. </p>
<p>To be able to take day trips to see Sam and Bobby, and vice versa. To drive his Baby every day, to go to the beach <em> whenever </em> he wants, to push his fingers into the sand and to run, run, <em> run, </em>as far and as wide as he wishes, just because he can. No bars, no chain-link fences, no beeping gates that open and close at set times. No power structure with him balanced precariously at the top, unseen enemies waiting in the shadows to try and take what he’s tenuously earned for themselves.</p>
<p>About a week after leaving the Bay, Dean lands a job at the big bar in the center of the town square. It’s just off of the boardwalk, so it’s a high-traffic, high-volume kind of place, especially as they drift ever closer to the town’s major tourist season. While surprising, the offer couldn’t have come at a better time—Dean’s hopes of scoring a paying gig at <em> all </em>had been dwindling. Not only that, but his self-esteem and his ego were honestly starting to smart. Watching Cas leave for work day after day, returning home to find his loser, ex-con boyfriend still hapless and unemployed—not great for that sort of thing. </p>
<p>Not great for a fledgling relationship at all.</p>
<p>Not that Cas ever lets on if he’s bothered, and that needles at Dean more than anything else. Living with Cas is going great—hell, it’s freaking <em> awesome—</em>but Dean isn’t trying to turn him into some sugar daddy with him holding the default position of resident deadbeat (who can’t even put out, <em> so sexy</em>).</p>
<p>Regardless, Dean can now table that particular spiral, and just in time. After almost five straight days of essentially going door-to-door putting in applications (and being glared away), like magic, Dean’s phone rings.</p>
<p>Everything moves quickly after that—the bar’s owner asks Dean to come down and work for a couple of hours that very same night. Just to show off his skills and prove his (embellished) resume, which Dean is more than happy to do. The working interview goes off without a hitch, Dean does the hippy hippy shake a bunch of times, and he walks out the door gainfully employed and one step closer to being a productive member of society.</p>
<p>Plus, <em> tips</em>.</p>
<p>From there on out, he and Cas have to adjust to normal people problems—opposite schedules, being too tired to go out to dinner, falling asleep during Dr. Sexy reruns—Average Joe stuff. They bicker and they cuddle and they kiss, they go for walks on the beach during Dean’s breaks, and Cas sits happily at the bar while he works. On the weekends, they plan and they budget and they start work on the house. Sometimes, they go for rides in Baby or out on the bike for absolutely no reason at all, or they drive into the city to have dinner with Sam and his pretty girlfriend, Jess. </p>
<p>Eventually, Cas starts joining Dean for one of his two scheduled therapy sessions per week, and Dean doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would.</p>
<p>He doesn’t hate <em> any </em>of it. </p>
<p>In fact, the more time that passes, the harder it is for Dean to keep himself from screaming out loud to the entire boardwalk that he loves Cas, is <em> in love </em> with Cas, that he wants him terribly and hates himself for not being able to do anything about it. The shame and the conflicting emotions surrounding his own inability to <em> show </em>his love for Cas the way Dean wants to keep him from saying anything at all, but it’s not the despair spiral it once might have been.</p>
<p>Mia is patient with him. She’s accepting and validating of the way Dean makes progress one day and comes back with the same self-loathing bullshit the next. She’s so perpetually understanding and logical that Dean can’t <em> help </em>but start to believe her when she says he won’t be like this forever. </p>
<p>
  <em> Change is constant.  </em>
</p>
<p>They don’t tell Sam (or Dean’s parole officer) where he’s really living, and the dude who owns the motel seems more than happy to keep his secret, too (so long as the money keeps flowing). <em> Dean’s </em> happy doing what he’s doing, so is Cas, and that’s all that matters. Plus, explaining the situation to Sam would require discussing his nightmares. Not only that they exist, but also how Dean barely even has them anymore because of <em> Cas—</em>holding him tight at night. </p>
<p>The long game involves them “officially” moving in together when the house is finished—enough time and distance having passed that hopefully doing so can be somewhat socially acceptable to Sam (and the world).</p>
<p>Sometimes, though, Dean still wakes up doused in a cold sweat. Jolts upright screaming and sure that the weight he can feel pinning his body down is more than an imagined phantom conjured up from his worst memories. Some nights, Cas has to shake him back to consciousness, drag him kicking and screaming out of whatever dark realm is holding him hostage. Once in a while, Cas’ arms and his soothing words don’t help.</p>
<p>On those nights, Dean slips out of their cottage in the dead of night and just walks. His feet lead him blindly, brain on autopilot, down to the beach. No matter the weather, Dean can and does sit there for hours, just feeling the salt on his skin and breathing the fresh air. Eventually, Cas always finds him. If he’s awake when Dean leaves, he’ll give him some space before following, but many of those times, he’s not. </p>
<p>On those nights, Dean imagines that Cas wakes up as confused as him, the space in the bed next to him empty and cold. </p>
<p>If it bothers him, if it <em> irritates </em>him, if Cas gets tired of chasing Dean down to the beach after the tenth or eleventh time it happens, he never mentions it. He simply appears by Dean’s side like a miracle, dropping down into the sand with a blanket to wrap around their shoulders and something warm to drink. Even if it’s freezing, he’ll sit there in silence for as long as Dean needs before quietly walking him home and holding him close until the sun comes up.</p>
<p>It’s always the days that follow nights like those that Dean hates himself most. Hates his brain and his body for rebelling against him, for his own inability to <em> thank </em>Cas properly, the way he so desperately wants to do. </p>
<p>But change is constant, and when Dean repeats those regrets out loud to Mia, she responds by asking him why he’s so sure that everything is still the same.</p>
<p>“The same?” Dean echoes.</p>
<p>“As the first time you and Castiel attempted to move beyond kissing. In a physical sense,” Mia explains. </p>
<p>Dean can’t answer that. They haven’t tried again, he doesn’t know.</p>
<p>After a moment of silence, a smiling Mia offers up a few suggestions that have Dean wondering if it’s possible to dissolve into atoms or actually become one with the floral couch he’s sitting on through sheer will alone. Dean’s brain is too embarrassed and inflamed to form a logical reply, so he calls their session for the day and leaves. Stammering his way out of Mia’s office with his cheeks looking like they spent an entire day in the summer sun, Dean doesn’t even <em> consider </em> putting her ideas into practice because then he’ll have to <em> discuss </em>the results during a future session.</p>
<p>
  <em> Talk about nightmare fuel. </em>
</p>
<p>So he doesn’t consider them, not even a little.</p>
<p>Or at least, he doesn’t consider them <em> at first.  </em></p>
<p>Not until much later that evening—which is also a night off from the bar—and Cas dipping into their wine stash shortly after arriving home. Drinking turns Cas especially affectionate, that’s a given. In the context of their relationship, that basically means that Cas wants to lie down on the bed and snuggle, wants to run his hands through Dean’s hair and over his back, and kiss until they both pass out for the night. </p>
<p>Weirdly, Cas seems <em> completely </em>content with this arrangement and has never once pushed Dean for more. Never even remotely indicated he’d like to take things to the next level, just accepts whatever Dean is willing to give him and acts both satisfied and happy, like those measly crumbs are a fucking five-course meal.</p>
<p><em> Well fuck that, </em> Dean thinks, lying in Cas’ arms and staring down at his gentle smile and the crinkles next to his eyes in his usual appreciation and awe. Cas is exceptionally doting tonight, soft and tipsy and sweetly infatuated as he kisses Dean’s cheek and traces the shell of his ear with his fingers. </p>
<p>
  <em> God, Cas deserves so much better. </em>
</p>
<p>Watching Cas love him so easily, so selflessly, has Dean abruptly deciding that he’s damn well going to figure out a way to give Cas that five-course meal for real. If that means recounting his failed sexual exploits in a paint-by-number fashion with his therapist, then fuck his life, Dean will do it.</p>
<p>Cheeks already heating up, Dean clears his throat and recounts some of Mia’s suggestions to Cas, right there. Some things are easier than others—discussing sexual situations, positions, and acts that Dean suspects might be <em> less </em>tainted and more removed from his traumatic experiences, for example. Some things aren’t easy at all—Mia spent almost five full minutes describing “super enthusiastic continuous consent,” and by the end of it, Dean wasn’t sure he ever wanted to have sex again.</p>
<p>“I’m familiar with the idea,” Castiel murmurs when Dean describes it. His hands never falter as they go running over whatever parts of Dean he can reach, which, Dean can’t help but see the irony of. That’s what they’re <em> supposed </em> to be doing—except, minus clothes, plus intention. Cas doesn’t seem to notice, though. “And I’m not remotely opposed. It’s good, in theory. My only concern is that the activity is predicated on <em> touch </em>not being the actual problem. If touch itself is a trigger for you, this won’t help—it will almost certainly hurt.” </p>
<p>“She mentioned that,” Dean mumbles, smushing his face half into Cas’ shoulder and half into the pillow. He huffs, already frustrated, and complains to the bedding, “I’unno what my...my <em> trigger </em> is.” </p>
<p>“We should discuss it with Mia together,” Castiel offers, and Dean groans. </p>
<p>“Knew you were gonna say that. <em> Knew </em>it. Don’t I get a say?”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“Then I say we just throw a bunch of shit at the wall and see what sticks.”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>Castiel rolls onto his side and props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Dean with one eyebrow raised. “Dean, this is your mind, your <em> health. </em>It’s not a game.” </p>
<p>In response, Dean frowns and falls away from Cas, flat onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, but, that’s the problem. You know...<em> before, </em>before all this shit, there wasn’t a game out there I liked more than this. Everything about hooking up—the hunt, choosing a target, the little dance to see if someone was interested—and then everything that came after, best freaking game on the planet. I mean, yeah, Crowley had a hand in some stuff, but Cas, I didn’t sign up to be a sex worker because I hated it. I always kind of thought...that I was lucky that way.” </p>
<p>There’s a minute of quiet stillness before Cas is snuggling closer and wrapping himself around Dean from the side. “Nothing is lost,” he says firmly, tugging Dean close. “Recovery is not a straight line. It’s frustrating and occasionally humiliating, but there is light at the end of the tunnel, Dean. I won’t rush you, nor will I leave you behind. In the meantime, though, I think we should discuss something important. What are your feelings on rimming?”</p>
<p>Suddenly, Dean’s eyes fly open and he’s <em> wide </em>awake.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Despite Dean’s complaining, Cas does get his wish. Over the next five sessions, he joins Dean and Mia for counseling that revolves around sex and almost nothing else. <em> Sex, </em> Dean learns, is an all-encompassing term for not just the act but everything that comes with it, and the more they talk it to death, the more <em> boring </em> it seems. By the fourth session, Dean begins to suspect that’s Cas’ and Mia’s goal—take all the excitement, the surprise and uncertainty out of it, so there’s nothing left to traumatize him. Reduce his orgasms to a glorified <em> medical </em>procedure; nothing to be triggered by there. </p>
<p>
  <em> No fucking thanks. </em>
</p>
<p>Whether or not that’s actually their intention—and much to Dean’s dismay—it fucking works, if only because he can’t stand the dismantling of something he used to love—the best stress relief in the universe—into technicalities and techniques. <em> Fuck that. </em> Dean’s given up enough, and if being mentally healthy means <em> Cas </em>looking at him like a project and a fragile headcase that requires careful handling, even in the sack—Dean doesn’t want it.</p>
<p>Their fifth session happens to be late on a Friday afternoon, which means that Dean works but Cas has off the next day. It’s perfect timing—they walk out of Mia’s little Victorian-style bungalow a couple streets over from the town square to cool summer weather and a mild drizzle. It’s early June, and both the seasonal residents and vacationers alike have flooded the town in full-force. The atmosphere is light and jovial despite the rain, families and couples darting in and out of shops and restaurants as Dean and Cas make their way towards the bar.</p>
<p>“Can’t go running in the rain,” Dean remarks off-handedly. It’s a dumb thing to say; they’re strolling casually through the mist right now, completely unbothered.</p>
<p>“I can, and I will,” Castiel replies.</p>
<p>“But you won’t. You’re gonna sit at my bar and get fat, for no other reason than I deserve the eye candy.” </p>
<p>“Of course, Dean.” </p>
<p>Cas grabs the sleeve of his jacket just as they step in front of the giant, glassless openings framing either side of the bar’s entrance. The windows slide closed when it’s cold or there’s truly bad weather, but most of the time, they stay open. It gives the whole bar an indoor-outdoor feeling, the ocean wind blowing through and making patrons feel like they’re right on the beach. But with alcohol. And less sand. </p>
<p>Right there on the street, between the parking meters and Dean’s place of respectable employment, Cas kisses him. It’s slow and deep, a hand on Dean’s cheek and absolutely no care for who’s looking on. It’s kind of cliche, kissing in the rain like this, but Dean doesn’t mind. After yet another horrifyingly dry and humiliating sex therapy session, he’s ready to get this damn show on the road, and if Cas wants to give him an opening (<em>ha), </em>all the better. </p>
<p>It’s been a couple of weeks now that they’ve been cautiously venturing into increasingly physical territory, Cas embracing the “super enthusiastic continuous consent” thing after all. That activity mostly consists of them losing their clothes and Cas firing up his wandering hands, with an added, <em> “is this okay?” </em>every ten seconds that makes Dean want to lose his mind.</p>
<p>It’s helped, though. Maybe. Well, it’s made Dean crave the real thing and it’s stopped him from having any touch-associated, uncontrolled flashbacks, so that’s basically—probably—the same deal.</p>
<p>The thing is, Cas is a <em> good </em>fucking therapist, and Dean can already tell that he’s a damn good lover, too (when he’s not playing fuck-by-numbers, or whatever this is). When Cas tries to combine the two and be both at the same time? The results are not great. </p>
<p>This, though? Practically slow dancing on the sidewalk with the ocean crashing in the background? <em> This, </em>Dean digs. He leans into the touch, swiping his tongue through Cas’ mouth and swallowing the little moan he knew would come next. If there’s one thing he and Cas have done plenty of, it’s kissing. Despite that, Dean doesn’t think he could ever be sick of putting his mouth on Cas’, could do only this forever and be thrilled with having it. </p>
<p>So he’s reluctant to pull away, even when a whoop and a cheer from inside the bar catches his attention. Leaning back to peer around Cas, Dean spots Pamela, the bar’s owner, swinging a dishtowel over her head as she makes some pretty suggestive motions in their direction. Huffing a laugh, Dean shakes his head and turns back to Castiel. </p>
<p>“Anyway, you coming in, or what?” </p>
<p>Cas just smiles and loops his arm through Dean’s, allowing himself to be led. “Can’t think of any other way I’d prefer to spend my evening.” </p>
<p>He settles onto an end stool and Dean gets to work, not-so-subtle ribbing by Pamela included free of charge. The majority of his shift goes by quickly—the bar is busy, but not so much that Dean can’t lean across the counter and flirt with Cas all he wants. The mix out out-of-towners with spending money and regulars who know Dean by name translates great for tips, and by the time Dean is wiping down the bar after last call has come and gone, he’s pocketed almost five hundred bucks. </p>
<p>“Don’t get used to that haul,” Pamela warns good-naturedly as she finishes rinsing the last of the glasses. “Or at least, remember to stick part of it in the bank. Don’t forget that summer’s a fickle bitch—come mid-January of next year, this place will be a ghost town. Just you, me, Cas, and the pool table, and she doesn’t tip well.” </p>
<p>“I dunno,” Dean muses. He tips his chin across the room to where Cas has been playing by himself, waiting for Dean to be finished. Right now, Cas is stretched halfway across the green, ass towards Dean, completely unaware of how he looks or the way Dean is lusting after him as he lines up a shot. “You gonna tell me you’ve gotten a better tip than that?”</p>
<p>“Well, hot damn,” Pamela quips, elbowing Dean. “I stand corrected. I will happily watch that <em> all </em>winter long.” </p>
<p>Dean laughs loudly and it attracts Castiel’s attention. He turns to find the bartending duo staring at him, raising his eyebrows and looking over his shoulder in confusion, like he can’t believe anyone would find him that interesting.</p>
<p>“Get out of here, you infatuated asshole,” Pam says, when Dean doesn’t tear his eyes away from his boyfriend, nearly dropping a glass off the side of the counter in the process. “Go enjoy your <em> tip</em>.” </p>
<p>Grinning, Dean slips an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug before untying his half-apron and hanging it up next to the bar. He winks before running both hands through his hair to fix it. “Wish me luck. Hey—call me if you get swamped tomorrow night.” </p>
<p>“Will do, gorgeous,” Pam calls back. She has only one other full-time employee, a snarky chick named Claire that Dean is almost one hundred percent sure is underage—but that’s not his business. Between them and a small handful of part-timers as barbacks, everyone walks away with good money. He and Claire trade off working the busiest weekend shifts—since Pam never seems to take a night to herself—but every now and then, the crowd is too much and both of them end up needed behind the bar. The cash is great, but truthfully, Dean thinks he’d rather spend this Saturday putting up drywall with Cas.</p>
<p>He cops a smile thinking of that now, and maybe what they <em> might </em>do once the drywall is finished. Meanwhile, Cas is replacing his pool cue on the wall when Dean walks up, turning and freaking lighting up when he discovers Dean so close.</p>
<p>“Well, hey there, gorgeous,” Dean says, leaning an elbow on a high top table and dragging his bottom lip through his teeth. “Gettin’ late, doesn’t look like you found anyone to take you home tonight. Damn shame, letting an ass like that go to waste.” </p>
<p>“I <em> could </em> say the same,” Castiel replies, giving Dean a hard once-over as he pulls on his jacket, a coat Dean hates and not <em> just </em>because it covers Cas’ ass. The warmer weather has him favoring the same awful tan trenchcoat every damn day, but Cas seems to love it so much, Dean doesn’t have the heart to complain. “But I won’t, seeing as how I have a boyfriend and I can’t imagine he’d approve.” </p>
<p>Dean pouts. “Maybe you underestimate him,” he offers. “Maybe your boyfriend doesn’t like everyone thinking he’s such a special snowflake. <em> Maybe </em>he’d be psyched to have someone pick him up at a bar, take him home, and rail the shit out of him.”</p>
<p>Castiel squints and tips his head to the side. “I thought we were discussing <em> my </em>ass.” </p>
<p>Flustered, Dean huffs and grabs Cas’ hand, stalking his way towards the door and dragging Cas behind. “Whatever,” he grumbles. “Roleplay portion of the evening over. See ya, Pam!”</p>
<p>“Adios, lovebirds,” she calls back. </p>
<p>Outside, the rain is steadier now, and Dean strongly regrets their earlier decision to walk into town for therapy. Cas, on the other hand, doesn’t even seem to notice—picking up their conversation where they left off inside as fat raindrops plop obnoxiously onto their heads. Dean groans and flips his collar up, setting off towards home at a breakneck pace.</p>
<p>Those running thighs Dean loves so much allow Cas to keep up with him easily <em> and </em>talk, like they’re out for a casual stroll in the park. “Your remarks in the bar suggest there will be additional portions to this evening,” he says. “Am I allowed to know what those are?” </p>
<p>“No,” Dean replies petulantly. Their joined hands are wet and slippery now, but neither of them lets go of the other. Dean risks a glance over at Castiel, finding him staring back, curious and questioning. True to form, though, Cas doesn’t push.</p>
<p>“Alright.” </p>
<p>They hurry across the intersection that bisects the road the motel is on, finding a decent amount of shelter under the mature trees that line the sidewalk. After a few additional minutes of walking in silence, Dean breaks. “That’s it? Just gonna let me off the hook so easy?” </p>
<p>Next to him, Castiel sighs. “If I press the issue, you’ll only become upset. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” </p>
<p>As that sinks in, Dean finds himself becoming unusually frustrated and angry, which he supposes is ironic, knows is ridiculous, and still indulges anyway. He makes a noncommittal noise that has Castiel frowning, and thanks whatever God is listening that the motel is coming into sight down the road. Although, being trapped inside with Cas isn’t likely to defuse the situation, either.</p>
<p>It takes Dean a full minute to realize that Cas isn’t walking next to him anymore. Water drips down his forehead, so Dean brushes it away as he whirls around to find his man standing several yards back, looking terribly confused. “What,” Dean complains, having to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the rain. He takes a couple of steps closer, lifting his hands and letting them slap back down to his wet sides. “What did I do?” </p>
<p>As he nears, Cas’ eyes narrow further, and his mouth sets into a thin line. “Oh, here we go,” Dean mutters.</p>
<p>“What the fuck, Dean?” Castiel asks quietly. He’s clearly angry, but he isn’t raising his voice, and that leaves Dean feeling like he’s lost the upper hand. Like he’s being scolded by a parent, actually, and <em> no fucking thanks </em>to that. </p>
<p>“What—”</p>
<p>“I’ve given you <em> everything,</em>” Cas growls, stepping forward and invading Dean’s space rather carelessly. “I—I’m careful with you, I’m patient. I try to please you, to offer you opportunities to push your boundaries while respecting your wishes when you aren’t ready. I’ve fought, I’ve rebelled against my own moral code. I’ve put my <em> license </em> on the line and I did it—<em>all of it—</em>for <em> you. </em> And you—”</p>
<p>Dean silences Castiel with a bruising kiss, one that’s powerful enough to slam him backward, up against an extremely convenient tree. Cas isn’t expecting it, but to his credit, he gets with the program crazy quick. Grabbing Dean with one arm around his shoulders and the other yanking at his hip, Cas moans and opens his mouth, practically begging Dean to kiss him harder, rain be damned.</p>
<p>They’re both soaked now, water getting into their mouths and running in rivulets under Dean’s jacket and down his back, but he’s never cared about anything less. “Cas,” he says as he pulls back, panting a little. “I’m not <em> good </em> at talking ‘bout this shit, but I was trying to get you home so we could—you know—<em>fuck.”  </em></p>
<p>Cas’ eyes search his face and his expression shifts and softens as he considers Dean’s words, realizing eventually that his last word was not hyperbole, it was a <em> very real </em>suggestion. </p>
<p>“You’re—”</p>
<p>“Bad at talking, tired of waiting, yeah.” Despite that, Dean just stands there, trapping Cas against the tree for a moment longer as water dribbles down their noses and necks and lingers at the end of sodden locks of hair. He swallows hard. “That list we made, the stuff I thought might be good to try?”</p>
<p>Cas’ eyes are the stupidest, <em> brightest </em> blue Dean has ever seen, reflected in the street lights and contrasted by all of the darkness surrounding them. It’s a metaphor Dean wishes he was too dumb to recognize, mostly because it’s a <em> lot</em>, especially for what he’s trying to do here. Not everything needs to be a Big Moment, or even romantic. Right now, Dean kind of just wants Cas to touch his dick.</p>
<p>Understanding dawns over Cas’ face. “Number three?” </p>
<p>Dean grins, relieved that he doesn’t have to say it after all. He wiggles his eyebrows. “You up for it?” </p>
<p>Cas opens his mouth and then shuts it quickly, shaking his head quickly like a dog and spraying water everywhere, including Dean’s face. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, shoving Dean away from the tree, grabbing his hand, and darting across the street towards home. He gets the door open and yanks Dean inside in record time, their shoes and sodden clothing making puddles on the floor as they go. “You—bathroom,” Cas demands, before Dean can even get the door fully shut and locked.</p>
<p>If he wasn’t so jittery with nerves, Dean would make a funny joke or some sarcastic quip, but he’s already on edge and his tank is low. Instead, he shoots Cas some terrible finger guns and then closes his eyes from the embarrassment. “I’ll just—” Face on fire, he escapes into the bathroom, leaning against the door like the hot chick in a slasher fic being chased. <em> Fuck, he’s really doing this. </em></p>
<p>Dean stands there, waiting for the fear to strike, for the second thoughts to poke through his low buzz of arousal and piss him off with their continued existence. He waits, and he listens to Cas moving around on the other side of the door, setting the stage. Dean thinks back on the way Cas’ face looked in the rain, pupils dilating as his thoughts caught up to Dean’s words and—presumably—his brain supplied some very graphic images of what they <em> could </em> be doing, because Dean <em> wants it.  </em></p>
<p>To his surprise, nothing happens. No dark thoughts surface to put him on his ass or leave him shaking and useless on the bathroom floor the way he feared. Dean’s not an idiot—he knows that doesn’t mean he’s <em> cured </em> or whatever—but it’s a good fucking start. </p>
<p>“Alrighty then,” he murmurs out loud, before getting down to business. </p>
<p>Dean strips unceremoniously, stuffing all of his wet crap into the hamper Cas finally caved and bought the other week, because apparently, they were becoming heathens. He fishes in the cabinet underneath the sink for the other <em>stuff </em>Cas stocked up on recently, in anticipation that they would eventually get to this moment, and then—Dean does what he has to do.</p>
<p>Weirdly, it seems like Cas (and Mia, fuck his life) were right about this part being important. There was no <em> prep </em> when it came to what happened to Dean in prison. Having the option to clean himself up now puts Dean in an entirely different mindset, reminds him that this is something he <em> wants, </em> that he’s choosing. It’s not remotely sexy and it definitely doesn’t turn him on, but going through the motions of something he did once upon a time in anticipation of sex that he <em> wanted—</em>yeah, it’s definitely weird, but it helps.</p>
<p>By the time he’s gearing up to exit the bathroom, Dean’s feeling ready. Not full of the fake bravado he tried to force himself into exuding before—afraid that Cas wouldn’t understand, that he’d leave—but <em> really, </em> genuinely ready. Dean steps out of the shower and runs a towel over his body, initially moving to hang it up but then tying it around his waist after a second thought. It’s not necessarily for modesty, but because Dean remembers the way Cas looked at him the very first time he walked out of this same bathroom wearing <em> only </em> a towel. </p>
<p>Cas doesn’t disappoint. He’s down to his boxers, kneeling on the bed when Dean emerges. Immediately, his eyes snap to Dean’s face, then his chest, then lower. It’s hard for Dean not to smirk as he watches Cas try to control himself, squeezing his own thighs and doing that thing where his lips part a little because he’s not paying enough attention to his face. </p>
<p>Alright, to be fair, Cas paints a pretty hot picture himself. He’s all messy hair and muscles shiny from his damp clothing, the pieces left strewn across the floor in a very <em> un-</em>Cas-like fashion. Another time, maybe Dean would say something about that, but Cas’ eyes are locked on his and the shades are pulled and the room is dark and cozy, and hell, <em> don’t </em> they deserve something <em> good </em>? </p>
<p>Dean can feel his cock stirring under the towel as Cas shifts on the bed, reaching out for him. Three steps and Dean’s in his arms, nudging between his knees to slot their bodies together. It’s a relief; warm and soothing to be near Cas in this way, but this part isn’t new. Both of them have seen each other undressed countless times at this point, fully naked, even. Although—by some unspoken agreement—it does feel as if they’ve tried to avoid too much <em> complete </em>exposure. </p>
<p>At the same time, Dean sleeps in Cas’ arms every night. He knows what it feels like to lie with his chest flush to Cas’ back, or feel Cas’ beating heart steady against his. It’s not like the arousal is unfamiliar either—Dean’s never <em> not </em> been attracted to Cas, never <em> not </em> wanted to ravage him or <em> be </em> ravaged within an inch of his life, it’s just his traitorous freaking <em> head </em>that’s gotten in the way. </p>
<p>Tonight, though, something feels different. And yeah, he’s done the work, and yeah, he’s fed up with waiting and being treated with kid gloves, but it’s also just that he’s in the mood. Seeing Cas sitting across from him at the bar, quietly drinking his whiskey and laughing at Pam’s playful banter at Dean’s expense always makes Cas seem like, six times hotter than usual. If someone asks—and Mia probably will—for Dean to pin down a <em> why </em> or a <em> how, </em>or even a definitive statement to the press on taking the plunge tonight, he couldn’t do it.</p>
<p>It’s just one of those things.</p>
<p>Cas reaches down and threads their fingers together, lifting their joined hands and pressing them to his mouth. The towel Dean’s wearing threatens to abandon him completely, but Dean ignores it—it can go, there’s no way he’s stopping now. Humming softly, Cas lets their knuckles drift down the edge of Dean’s jaw while he tips his own face up for a kiss. He lingers, shuffling closer and threading his free arm around Dean’s back, kissing him and kissing him until Dean feels his own body relax.</p>
<p>That surprises him—he didn’t realize he was tense, but that’s part of what Dean digs about Cas—he <em> always </em>knows. As if to prove the point, Cas hums again and pulls back, breaking their hand-hold to touch Dean on the nose with one finger. “You can’t assume I’ll be able to read your mind in this,” he says, almost scoldingly. </p>
<p>Dean raises his eyebrows. “I mean…”</p>
<p>Rolling his eyes, Castiel tugs him down until they’re lying side by side, Cas’ fingertips skating up and down Dean’s bare ribcage. The room is warmer than usual—Cas must have turned down the A.C.—but the hair on Dean’s arms stands up anyway. “Promise you’ll talk to me,” Cas implores, wide-eyed and sincere, so once again, Dean swallows his snappy comeback and nods. </p>
<p>“‘Course, Cas,” he says, grabbing the back of Castiel’s head and slotting their mouths together again. This time, Cas seems content to let things escalate; hands drifting over skin, heat building between them. Dean loses his towel for good and Cas sheds his boxers, their hips finding a careful rhythm moving against each other’s bodies. It’s slow and steady and sensual—it’s not like anything Dean’s used to, even <em> before </em>all the bullshit.</p>
<p>In fact, the build is so intense that it’s almost embarrassing—Dean’s glad Cas isn’t trying to maintain eye contact or something like that, he’d be calling it quits for a whole different bucket of reasons. As it is, the way Cas touches him so tenderly, the way he takes his time kissing over every square inch of Dean’s skin, stroking his cock but letting go before Dean can either enjoy it or lose his mind—it all telegraphs a reverence, a <em> revelation </em>that Dean is already sure of, despite neither of them giving voice to it yet. </p>
<p>All of a sudden, he <em> really </em>fucking wants to. </p>
<p>“Number three?” Cas murmurs, hovering somewhere over Dean’s belly button, a brief break between sucking lines of bruises into his skin. One hand is busy messing with Dean’s nipple while the other props him up against the bed, and he looks crazy at home between Dean’s legs.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Dean replies, and the reply comes out a <em> lot </em> breathier than he means for it to. He swallows and exhales with intention, not failing to notice the way Cas’ smile isn’t <em> quite </em>hidden by the way he’s ducking his head. “Shut up.” </p>
<p>Cas looks up then, eyes sparking mischievously as his hand drags down the new softness of Dean’s post-prison belly, stopping just shy of his pubic bone. “It’s just nice to see you...<em> relaxed </em>and enjoying yourself. I’m only attempting to facilitate that further. Remember the safe word we chose, please.” </p>
<p>“Impala,” Dean answers reflexively, not thinking. Cas freezes in his tracks, muscles going taut and hand retracting to a few inches above Dean’s skin until he quickly follows with, “But I’m not using it.” </p>
<p>“Very good, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, relaxing and returning to his ministrations. Dean doesn’t really have time to process the way those words send a lightning jolt of arousal through his system, because Cas <em> moves. </em> Just like that, his head is between Dean’s legs, his hands shoving Dean’s thighs back and pulling his cheeks apart as he presses the flat of his <em> tongue— </em></p>
<p>
  <em> Number Three: Rimming, with Dean on the receiving end, lying face-up.  </em>
</p>
<p>They’ve talked about this. Intellectualized it to death, in fact. The premise was simple: rimming is one sex act that remained untainted for Dean by his experiences in prison. The hope was that trying such a thing (with the ascribed positioning) might raise Dean’s threshold for triggering a trauma response. Might actually be something he could get into and enjoy without any shitty, Pavlovian connotations. </p>
<p>The thing is, <em> talking </em> and planning to have sex with Cas (sometimes with Mia listening and offering her detached, clinical input) is a whole different ballgame than actually <em> doing </em>it. The first involves dry conversations about STI test results, the pros and cons of condoms, and de-escalation/crisis management strategies. It’s frustrating and humiliating. The second is—</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck,” Dean cries out, reaching unconsciously for his own thighs and pulling them apart. He scrambles a little, Cas’ laughter dark and deep as he grabs and shoves a pillow under Dean’s hips, resettling them both with Dean’s legs draped over his shoulders. </p>
<p>“Good?” Cas asks, voice impossibly smug. His lips drag teasingly over the sensitive skin of Dean’s inner thigh, Cas’ soft hair brushing against his other leg.</p>
<p>
  <em> It’s so good. </em>
</p>
<p>“I said shut up,” Dean retorts, smothering Cas’ laugh as he pushes his head back down. Cas responds by readjusting his grip on Dean’s hips, tugging his body closer as he enthusiastically works his tongue over Dean’s hole. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean sighs, tangling fingers in Castiel’s hair and wriggling as the wet heat presses inside of him for the first time. </p>
<p>Cas isn’t shy—he licks and nips, spears Dean on his tongue like he’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, and when Dean is a messy, writhing mess, he changes course, just a little. By then, Dean has an arm thrown back and he’s grabbing the headboard, trying to keep from begging. His body is deliciously hot and sweaty, and he’s feeling pleasantly edged but not so much that it hurts. </p>
<p>Dean moans, maybe mumbling some undignified sentiments that include Cas’ name, and Cas responds by shushing him and soothing a palm up his torso. His attention migrates to Dean’s balls, sucking first one and then the other into his mouth while a single finger toys with his wet entrance and carefully works its way inside. Dean’s relaxed and loose enough now that it slides in easily, and the prostate pressure he’s rewarded with makes the brief flash of fear he feels dissipate like it was never even there.</p>
<p>And then Cas’ mouth is surrounding his cock, sliding down over Dean’s neglected shaft in one fluid movement that makes him buck his hips and half-sob as Cas’ finger drives deeper. Cas pulls off with a concerned noise, and Dean opens his eyes just in time to see a trail of saliva stretch from his lip to the tip of Dean’s dick. That alone (and maybe the year plus of celibacy) nearly makes him come, but he manages to retain the shred of dignity he has left and hold on.</p>
<p>“Everything alright?” </p>
<p>“Jesus, fuck, Cas, you can read my mind any other damn time! This is <em> awesome—</em>please, please don’t stop, angel."</p>
<p>With a grin (and a crook of the finger still firmly inside Dean’s ass), Cas nods and swallows him down again, the texture of his slick tongue and pulse of his throat muscles dragging Dean <em> right </em>to the edge. “Yeah Cas, do it, do it, please,” Dean chants, half out of his mind and knowing his words are mostly nonsense, caring exactly not at all. </p>
<p>One of his hands works its way back into the tendrils of Cas’ hair, and the other tugs on his own. Cas’ finger works in and out of his ass—<em>slightly </em> too dry but the pressure too fucking good to complain about—while Cas’ free hand fists the base of Dean’s cock and makes up for whatever he can’t suck down (<em>not much)</em>. </p>
<p>Delirious and thrilled about it, Dean happily rides the wave of pleasure that crescendos, starting at the base of his spine. The legs he has resting on Cas’ back tense up and start shaking, Dean’s whole body turning clammy and tingling, anxious with arousal. His breathing grows rough and quick as Cas hums around his cock, leaning forward to swallow twice, and Dean sees stars. He comes almost violently down Castiel’s throat, pulling on his hair and screaming his name, and it’s nothing but <em> bliss</em>. </p>
<p>Everything goes black and fuzzy at the edges, but Dean manages to stay conscious.</p>
<p>He’s nearly floating in the aftermath, enough that it takes him a second to notice that Cas is kind of hovering over him, jerking off a little uncertainly. His whole demeanor has shifted—no longer the confident sex god whose tongue had Dean worshipping at the altar only seconds prior. Now, Cas seems timid and clearly worried—kind of a, first-time-flasher vibe, and Dean’s never been more sorry he’s too tired to make a joke.</p>
<p>It takes him a minute, but the pieces <em> do </em> click into place and Dean reaches up to help Cas out, getting his hand swatted away for the effort. “Cas,” he protests, voice cracked and croaky, <em> not </em>sexy at all. “C’mon, lemme.” </p>
<p>“I am more than fine, I simply—is this alright?” Castiel gestures down his body to where his hard cock sits in his unmoving hand before waving between himself and Dean. Then and only then does Dean come to grasp that Cas thinks what he’s doing here is <em>offensive.  </em></p>
<p><em> Show, don’t tell, </em> Dean thinks, because that’s what Cas responds to best, in all situations. “Hell yeah, Cas,” he says with a smile that for <em> once </em> isn’t faked. Dean props himself up on his elbows, flutters his lashes, and opens his mouth just a little. He can only imagine the picture he makes, and normally that would send him running, but this is for <em> Cas. </em> After what Cas just did for him and how <em> good </em>he feels, there’s nothing Dean cares about more than returning the favor.</p>
<p>“Oh my,” Castiel whispers, his hand resuming motion on his cock. With his free hand, Cas touches Dean’s face and looks into his eyes, and Dean looks fearlessly back. Only a few short minutes later and Cas is murmuring a warning for Dean to close his eyes, warmth following in spurts and stripes across his face. </p>
<p>Dean waits—waits to feel shame, to feel dirty, to feel that inevitable welling sense of regret and horror that always accompanies <em> someone else </em> taking their pleasure with him, but it doesn’t come. <em> It doesn’t come, </em> and while Dean doesn’t <em> want </em> it to—of course he doesn’t—he did assume that it would. No way he’s walking out of this with one of the best orgasms of his life <em> and </em>getting to fully bypass the minor mental breakdown.</p>
<p>“Dean?” Cas’ voice filters through his sort-of afterglow wonderings, and Dean cracks an eyelid to see him towering over the bed. At some point, he must have collapsed onto his back, because he’s definitely lying down. Above him, Cas holds up a washcloth and motions to Dean’s face. “May I?”</p>
<p>“Oh, uh—yeah, thanks.” Carefully, Castiel cleans Dean’s face and between his legs, tossing the cloth onto the ground before sliding into bed beside him. He clicks off the bedside lamp, the only light in the room, and sidles up to Dean in the darkness.</p>
<p>“Anything?” he asks.</p>
<p>Dean’s relieved—the lack of light makes it easier for him to talk about this stuff. Then again, that “show, don’t tell” thing seems to work pretty well, too. It feels better—<em>safer</em>—to tuck himself into Cas’ side and wrap arms around his middle than to say, “Don’t worry, baby, I’m not about to run screaming from the room and possibly dissociate into next Tuesday.” </p>
<p>Instead, he says, “We can do that again soon, right?” </p>
<p>Cas’ tense body relaxes against Dean’s, and Dean can practically feel the smile on his face when he plants a kiss on the top of his head. </p>
<p>“Whenever you wish, love.”</p>
<p>Forget the afterglow and the memory of the amazing sex, it’s that little endearment that has Dean <em> really </em>tingling from head to toe. He fits himself into the hollow of Cas’ throat and presses a kiss to his chest before closing his eyes.</p>
<p><em> Love. </em>Yeah, he knows the feeling.</p>
<p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter was SUPER long so the next update will likely be short (like 4-6k); if that tracks then I will update on Friday again. I really don't like the monday update schedule, lol. ANYWAYYYY lmk, was it worth it?! I promise not to make you wait long for another love scene. :-*</p>
<p>Next time: Cas has scars too, and Dean wants to tend to them. Sam’s not as dumb as he looks, someone from Dean’s past wants to make amends, but everything is fine—really.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>My life in an upturned boat, marooned on a cliff,<br/>You brought me a great big flood, and you gave me a lift.<br/>To care, what a gift.<br/>You tell me with your tongue<br/>and your breath was in my lungs, and you float over the rift.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I know that things can really get rough, when you go it alone.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Don't go thinking you gotta be tough, to play like a stone.<i></i></i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GyAJ4V06izg">Chapter Inspo Song</a>
</p><p> </p><p>Chapter Warnings (SPOILERS): vague references to child abuse via Cas’ scars, Dean loving on Cas’ scars, lying (Dean to Sam), mentions of Dean’s past/his arrest/hooking/institutional corruption, references to Crowley and blackmail of Dean and others. Complicated emotions surrounding forgiveness.</p><p>Sex-related warnings: handjobs, intercrural sex, vague shower sex references (mutual masturbation), blowjob references, consensual MINOR somnophilia (Cas is asleep when Dean initiates, but he wakes up, he’s into it), a shit ton of kissing and intimacy cause they LOVE EACH OTHER ZOMG.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I know that things can really get rough, when you go it alone.</em><br/>
<em>Don't go thinking you gotta be tough, to play like a stone.</em>
</p><p>Castiel wakes confused. It’s not the location unsettling him—he recognizes the comforting darkness immediately, the familiar shapes of the furniture in his cottage looming nearby, fuzzy from the dim light seeping in around the curtains. It’s not the noise—the quiet patter of rain that hasn’t stopped overnight drips almost lazily onto the roof. It’s definitely not the delicious warmth pressed against his back—that’s become an expectation at this point—Dean all sleep-soft and tucked into his body in one position or another. It’s not even the painfully hard morning wood in between his legs—even that has slowly become Castiel’s waking norm. </p><p>After all, Dean’s struggle with physical intimacy didn’t lessen Castiel’s attraction <em> to </em>him, or stop the way his unconscious body responded to Dean’s proximity during sleep and sharing a bed. He simply didn’t act on it.</p><p>
  <em> Ah—that’s what’s different.  </em>
</p><p>This morning, there’s a hand wrapped firmly around Castiel’s cock, slick from more than pre-cum. Which means that Dean took the time to locate <em> lube </em> before starting this venture, which means he was likely awake and considering it for quite some time. Castiel can’t help but smile, rubbing his face into his pillow and yawning rather luxuriously. Dean really is an all-or-nothing man, and Castiel is discovering his nearly insatiable appetite for life at every turn. It shouldn’t surprise him that now Dean <em> can, </em> he <em>is</em>. </p><p>“Morning sunshine,” Dean says, voice low and rough, his breath hot where it puffs between Cas’ shoulder blades. “Thought I’d return the favor, since I wasn’t <em> allowed </em>the freaking pleasure last night.” </p><p>That answers Castiel’s lingering question. No one could blame him for wondering whether Dean might be feeling <em> obligated </em>to touch him, after all. But Dean apparently has his head on straight this morning, anticipating Castiel’s exact reservation and jumping all over it.</p><p>“Well, if you insist,” he replies, leaning back against Dean, and only belatedly realizing that he’s shirtless. While it’s true that this isn’t the first time he’s <em> been </em>shirtless around Dean, Castiel is usually quite careful to keep his back turned and his scars out of sight when he is. He’ll wear a shirt or ensure that he’s spooning Dean from behind in bed, that sort of thing.</p><p>It’s not that he’s ashamed of his body, or that he doesn’t want Dean to see—nothing of the sort. It’s just that Dean has plenty of painful reminders in his life, enough to struggle with and manage inside his own head. The last thing he needs during his off-time—his <em> relaxation </em> time, when he’s meant to be powered down and recharging—are reminders of <em> other </em>people’s traumatic history.</p><p>Castiel never wants to <em> take </em>more than Dean has to give—even accidentally. Especially when it’s so clear that Dean is a natural-born fixer, that he always puts others first, endlessly and to his own detriment. Isn’t that how they met, after all? </p><p>On the other hand, as Dean’s lips skate intentionally across the scars roadmapping his shoulder blades, Castiel is forced to consider that Dean is his <em> partner </em> now. Caring for each other is reciprocal where it once was one-sided, and it <em> is </em> true that Castiel perhaps hasn’t relinquished as much of that power as he should. It’s easy to point at the house as an example, but the house isn’t <em> him. </em>He can do better.</p><p>With that in mind, Castiel lies quietly while Dean strokes him and explores his back. He feels the weight of Dean’s palm, hot where it rests over a particularly deep mess of poorly healed, knitted scars. Castiel shivers, but doesn’t pull away, and Dean continues using his mouth and the fingers of his free hand to catalog the imperfections he finds.</p><p>It’s been years since the sight or the reminder of his scars’ existence felt triggering to Castiel. He’s done the therapy, put in the self-work, faced his anger and his sadness head-on. He’s been brave and intentional, he’s let it all go. That doesn’t mean that his history won’t come crawling back to haunt him from time to time, but his scars are simply a part of him now, nothing more. Nothing threatening towards his mental health, at least.</p><p>But feeling that and offering those same scars up for display—for an intimate partner’s scrutinizing perusal—those aren’t the same thing. What Dean is doing isn’t <em> upsetting, </em> per se, but it is...intense. Castiel feels as if he should <em> say </em>something and he opens his mouth to do so, but just then, Dean kisses his shoulder and molds himself completely to Castiel’s back. Curious, he closes it again.</p><p>“I think you’re perfect too, you know,” Dean says, nosing at the sensitive spot behind Castiel’s ear and tightening his grip on his cock. </p><p>“Dean—”</p><p>“No, this is a two-way street. You say that sappy shit to me, you’re gonna get it right back. Dean’s teeth close over the muscle that stretches between Castiel’s neck and his shoulder, biting down <em> just </em>on the right side of painful before letting go. Castiel sighs and sinks into him, reaching a hand back to grab Dean’s head and hold him close. His hips move instinctively into Dean’s fist, sensual and steady.</p><p>“Shitty things in your past made you who you are today, brought you here. What happened to you is fucked up beyond the telling, but I gotta say, Cas. When I see your scars, I feel—” It’s abrupt and it surprises Castiel when Dean growls a little and shifts suddenly, slipping an arm underneath him to wrap around his chest and pull.</p><p>“<em>Dean, oh.</em>” Castiel groans as Dean rolls mostly onto his back, tugging him along with the movement so that he winds up half-lying on top of him. Dean’s cock is trapped between Castiel’s ass cheeks, awkwardly seeking friction at a terrible angle. A slight shift and raise of his hips corrects the problem—Dean slips easily between his legs, much more comfortable for everyone. The end result is quite the exposed position, though, and Castiel’s own cock plumps up from where it’s gone slightly soft. “This is—”</p><p>“It turns me on how strong you are, Cas,” Dean murmurs in his ear. He grinds his pelvis against Castiel and picks up the pace on his stroking. “You—you have your shit together. You’re smart and brave and sexy as hell. Cas, you make me wanna be strong, make me wanna try harder. God, I fuckin’ love you so much. Love everything about you.” </p><p>Dean’s clearly babbling, and Castiel was already close, but Dean’s words—they have heat surging through his limbs as an orgasm sweeps over him, unexpected. It isn’t the way he thought this would go—<em>the morning, that confession, any of it</em>—but it’s not as if any defining moment in their relationship has been anything approaching normal.</p><p>“Dean—<em>fuck,” </em>Castiel finds himself yelling, which is not at all what he wants to say in return. Unfortunately, right now, it’s the best he’s got as his cock swells in Dean’s hand and shoots ropes of hot cum all over his own stomach. “Oh my,” Castiel pants, eyes still rolling back in his head.</p><p>Holding him tightly from behind, Dean kisses his neck and murmurs all plethora of sweet ramblings into his ear as he thrusts, still stroking Castiel’s softening cock as he finishes himself off between his thighs. He comes with a soft groan and a last twist of his palm that has Castiel squirming and going cross-eyed from the oversensitivity. Dean’s breathing is ragged, caught in his chest in a way Castiel can feel reverberate in his.</p><p>He winces as he feels the mess they made start to cool all over him. Carefully, Castiel slides to one side and turns his head to meet Dean’s eyes. They’re particularly lovely right now, dark green and far too bright, not nearly sleepy enough for all the hormones that are coursing through both of their systems. His expression is implacable—more serious than usual—quietly patient as he stares at Castiel, wide-eyed and seemingly waiting for his sentencing. </p><p>And Castiel isn’t cruel enough to draw it out. </p><p>He touches Dean’s cheek, gentle, the pads of his fingers relishing the texture of his two-day scruff. “Dean, I love you,” he says simply. “I have for a very long time.”</p><p>The smile Dean rewards him with would be blinding, were it actual light.</p><p>***</p><p>After a lazy shower with copious amounts of kissing that leads to soapy handjobs and the water running lukewarm, Dean informs Castiel that their new sex life is akin to snack chips. “Pringles,” Dean declares proudly as he towels off. His grin indicates that he’s extremely pleased with his terrible metaphor. “You know, once you pop, the fun don’t stop? C’mon, that’s genius.” </p><p>Once they finally make it out of the bathroom and into street clothing, Castiel (after choosing his softest boxer briefs because he is not eighteen anymore, has been out of the game for far too long, and chafing is not a joke) cooks up breakfast. Bacon, eggs, and a pistachio-flavored coffee sauce that Dean tried once several years ago and Castiel managed to track down for him online. </p><p>If they’d been sexually active at the time of its arrival, Castiel is one hundred percent sure he would have received a grateful blowjob. As it is, the way Dean’s gaze darkens when he takes a sip this morning, he’s not ruling out a retroactive thank you. In fact, Castiel has to turn back towards the stove and pointedly act <em> very </em>busy when Dean groans his satisfaction, because his brain and his dick do not agree on how much more the latter can take. </p><p>“Best orgasms of my life and then bacon? I knew I loved you,” Dean says casually, as he stuffs a fifth greasy piece into his mouth. Castiel isn’t stupid—he knows Dean is testing the waters, dropping that serious sentiment in the most cavalier way possible just to see what Castiel will do with it. After the way their first exchange went, it’s not as if he can blame him.</p><p>Without missing a beat, Castiel replies, “I love you too, Dean,” and continues eating. No jokes, no sarcasm, no extravagant words—there will be time for all of that later. Dean simply needs to be validated and reassured right now. The slight pink hue flushing his cheeks and the tiny smile that Dean tries to hide by stuffing more eggs in his mouth suggests that Castiel got it right.</p><p>Later, as they’re cleaning the dishes in the sink (Castiel washing, Dean drying), Castiel mirrors Dean’s casual mention of serious revelations. “Balthazar, my ex? He’s the one who taught me to ride motorcycles, the last real relationship I had prior to you.” Castiel clears his throat and scrubs harder at a dish that’s already spotlessly clean. “He did <em> not </em>care to see my scars.”</p><p>Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt. Castiel rinses the dish and hands it over, plucking a coffee mug immediately out of the suds so that his hands stay busy. “It’s not—it isn’t a big deal. It didn’t bother me then and I’m not even sure why I’m—” He pauses, struggling with giving shape to his thoughts and finding the correct words to explain to Dean what he wants to convey. “I suppose that after the very important sentiments we’ve exchanged today, I didn’t want to gloss over just how much the other things you said mean to me.” </p><p>The expression on Dean’s face is soft when Castiel finally looks up. As soon as their eyes meet, he’s opening his arms and motioning for Castiel to come in for a hug. Naturally, he goes, swallowing down the too-dramatic poetry he <em> wants </em>to let come pouring out about how everything with Dean exceeds his expectations. How every hug is better than the last, the way each touch they exchange and emotion they share only strengthens the bond that exists between them. </p><p>Having been a therapist for some time now, Castiel knows that everyone believes <em>their</em> own relationships to be extraordinary. <em>Your </em>children are always the cutest, the smartest, the most gifted. <em>Your </em>husband or wife or partner is the most thoughtful, the most generous, the most stunning human being to have ever existed on planet Earth. And so on. </p><p>In reality, most people and the relationships they engage in are entirely ordinary—boring, even. Castiel knows this, knows his view is innately biased and limited, and yet—he can’t help but believe (with alarming conviction that only increases with each passing day) that what he and Dean have truly <em> is </em>special. Something more than average, something profound and forged in fire. </p><p>“I meant it,” Dean whispers in his ear, in a way that has Castiel suppressing a shiver. He tucks his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, holds him tighter, and believes it’s true.</p><p>***</p><p>The majority of their afternoon is spent horsing around in the aisles of the locally-owned home improvement store and in Castiel’s money pit. Pam called as they were leaving the motel—apparently there’s some town-wide event she forgot was happening this weekend, and as such, the bar will likely be packed. It’s her truck they’re borrowing to stock up on supplies and materials for the house, so it’s not as if Dean can avoid her (nor would he), but Castiel can’t help feeling disappointed that he’s losing another night with Dean. Especially after the events of the previous one.</p><p>Still, they make the most of the afternoon, managing to get the majority of the drywall screwed into studs before they have to call it a day. While Castiel still refers to the place as the money pit (accurate) and Dean affectionately calls it the “Pit of Despair”, in reality, the house is shaping up rather nicely.  </p><p>Demo has been done for weeks, so all of the trash, the nasty carpets, the moldy walls, as well as tons and tons of gross insulation, awkward framing, and crumbling subfloor are long gone. Those have all been replaced and the contracted-out electrical was completed last weekend—in truth, Castiel barely recognizes the gutted interior. Dean has been working his ass off—all of his free time (much of it during the day when Castiel is at work) is spent here, pouring his heart and soul into what Castiel believes he’s starting to see as transforming their future home.</p><p>Now, today—with the walls looking a <em> lot </em> more like walls—Castiel can almost see it, too. Can almost believe that the house will be livable at some point in the future. Can <em> almost </em> envision himself enjoying his life and growing old here. There’s still a long way to go, though. As they work, Dean directs him to leave a few sheets off of certain areas so that he can access plumbing and ducting, and they avoid the bathrooms completely for now, but it’s all inarguably <em> better. </em></p><p>When they lock the front door in the golden light of the late afternoon (<em>locks, because there’s something to protect here, now), </em> the banter that flows between them is upbeat and optimistic. Dean’s going on about energy-efficient windows, and Castiel is contemplating the value for money of various cabinet styles (<em>Shaker—clearly superior). </em> They’re sweaty and dirty, and Dean’s t-shirt has a large, jagged rip that reveals a superficial but ugly scratch on his stomach. It runs just above a certain <em> other </em> scar and represents where he had an unfortunate run-in with a nail, but as always, he’s totally unfazed by its existence. </p><p>As Dean stoops to squint at the bay window that looks out over the porch from the outside, Castiel catches him by his belt loop. His other palm slides over Dean’s scratched up stomach as he tugs him in close, kissing him until he stops trying to focus on the house. Dean’s soft little sigh makes the ache in Castiel’s muscles ease, and the mixed scent of sweat and sawdust tingling his nose feels terribly, terribly <em> right.  </em></p><p>“I don’t want to go to work,” Dean complains as Castiel pulls away, which might be the most selfish thing Dean has ever said to him. It’s wonderful to hear, makes Castiel believe that Dean <em> is </em>actually healing. Wanting and taking things for himself is important, even if Castiel wishes for him to call off for entirely self-indulgent reasons. </p><p>“Come on, love,” he says, dragging Dean by the hand back towards Pamela’s truck. “If we hurry, I can make your shower worth the effort.” </p><p>***</p><p>Castiel’s evening is boring. He used to love nights like this—no busywork to complete for his job, no emergencies or patients with concerns that might result in an off-hours need for his presence. Usually, he’d relish nothing more than the freedom of having a quiet few hours to himself with no expectations. With the pleasant weather, he could read on the beach, go for a nice run, have a leisurely dinner and a few drinks at the bar, and then catch up on whatever TV programming he’s missed during the week.</p><p>All that, and with time to spare before Dean returns home.</p><p>Ultimately, he does do those things—including eating at the bar so that he and Dean can share a meal during his break—but by midnight, Castiel has to face the facts. He’s truly, completely gone on Dean, and whatever honeymoon phase they’re currently in has his normal activities feeling a bit lackluster. It’s not that he doesn’t <em> enjoy </em>his own interests and hobbies, it’s simply that everything is brighter, warmer, more interesting with Dean around. </p><p>Briefly, Castiel considers messaging Naomi. It’s been weeks since they’ve shared a drink together, after all. With Dean waiting at home, he’s been reluctant to cut into their evenings together in favor of spending more time at work. Perhaps not the most balanced approach—or even fair, Naomi’s been a good friend to him—but when it comes to Dean, Castiel’s never claimed to make the best choices. </p><p>Unfortunately, his phone died at some point while they were working on the house. By the time Dean was leaving for work and Castiel retrieved it to see if Naomi was available, it needed to be left on the charger for quite a while to even power back on. In the meantime, Castiel became restless and opted to head out and leave it behind. Internally, though, he resolved to catch up with Naomi in the coming week, to make her a priority again. </p><p>When he returned to the cottage after his run and subsequent meal with Dean, he was too concerned to worry about his phone. Something was <em> off </em>with Dean at dinner. He seemed distant, distracted, and while he still tangled his ankles around Castiel’s under the table, it was obvious that something wasn’t quite right.</p><p>When Castiel asked after him, Dean didn’t deny his troubles, but he wouldn’t get into them, either. Promising to fill Castiel in just as soon as he arrived home, Dean went back to work behind the bar with his brow furrowed and his jaw set. Quite the opposite of the man who had slapped Castiel’s ass jovially on his way out the door earlier.</p><p>Feeling anxious, Castiel flips on the TV and forces himself to sit quietly on the couch and not panic. He watches a few episodes of Dr. Sexy that he’s already seen, but when they’re over, he finds himself unable to recount a single plotline. By the time he hears the roar of the Impala pulling into the space beside his bike outside, Castiel’s seriously considering downing something stronger than beer. On the other hand, if what Dean has to say requires any critical thought or input, he doesn't want to be impaired.</p><p>
  <em> Decisions. </em>
</p><p>Thankfully, when Dean finally comes stepping through the door, his eyes focus immediately on Castiel. “Hey. I’m sorry for being an asshole earlier,” he blurts out. Something in Castiel’s chest loosens, and he exhales, relieved. “It’s been a goddamn <em> night. </em> Beer?”</p><p>“Beer,” Castiel agrees. “I’m glad to hear you aren’t angry with me.”</p><p>Dean whirls around where he stands at the open fridge, two beers in one hand, bottle opener in the other. He looks genuinely surprised. “What? Oh, shit. No. No, Cas, it’s nothing like—C’mere.” Setting the drinks down on the kitchen table, Dean holds out a hand for him to take, dragging Castiel up off of the couch and into his arms when he does. The kiss that follows is unexpected but not unwanted, and the gentle hand on his jaw goes a long way towards easing Castiel’s fears.</p><p>“Sit, sweetheart,” Dean says, when the kiss naturally ends. He recovers the bottles, pops them open, and hands one over before taking a long drink. If he notices the way the endearment causes the last of Castiel’s anxiety to leave him in a physical rush that must <em> surely </em>be visible, Dean has the decency not to show it. Instead, he slumps bonelessly against the cushions, tucking one arm behind his head and slinging a leg carelessly over Castiel’s closest thigh.</p><p>“Sam was waiting in the parking lot when I left for work earlier.” </p><p>Castiel frowns, confused. “Sam? Your brother? Why didn’t he—”</p><p>Dean huffs a grunt, obviously frustrated. “I dunno, Cas. He said a whole bunch of stuff—I only followed like half of it. He’s pretty pissed I lied to him ‘bout living with you, maybe that’s why he didn’t say hey. I don’t think—” Dean cuts himself off and makes a face as he searches for the right words. </p><p>“I don’t think it was about you, Cas. Sam wants to go to law school, he scored some internship with the D.A.’s office in the city, he—he knows stuff about what’s all going on. Not <em> my </em>case exactly, but others, related shit. Anyway, he was worried, said some stuff about Crowley getting an appeal, a new court date. It’s soon—within the month. Sam thinks he’s got a real shot at getting out, I guess. I dunno. He wanted me to move back to the city, stay with him for now. I got the feeling he knows more than he’s letting on but not enough to understand what and who he’s dealing with.”</p><p>Castiel’s beer goes ignored in his hand, label slippery and condensation dripping onto his fingers. “Oh my,” is all he can think to say. </p><p>Dean’s brow furrows, the same way that Castiel saw in the bar. “That’s not all,” he continues, withdrawing his hand from behind his head to pull it down over his mouth. “Sam gave me a burner phone. Weird, right? Told me to keep it, ‘just in case.’” He looks at Castiel, concerned. “That’s weird, right?” </p><p>“Very weird,” Castiel echoes. “We should call him tomorrow, or take a trip up there. Clearly, this merits further discussion, and—”</p><p>Dean shakes his head vehemently. “Cas, man, no. I told you. I don’t want to involve Sam in any of this. Whatever he thinks he knows—he doesn’t really. I can’t even—don’t make me dwell on how he even connected the dots between Crowley and me, I might throw up.” Dean takes a deep breath and sits forward, hanging his head rather heavily between his shoulders. Castiel puts what he hopes is a comforting hand on his back and rubs gently. </p><p>“So what did you do with the phone?”</p><p>“Glove compartment in Baby. What the hell else should I do with it?”</p><p>“I don’t—I have no idea, Dean, but I can certainly see why this was a tough evening for you.”</p><p>“Dude, I <em> wish </em>that was the end of it, but there’s something else.”</p><p>“Something else with Sam?”</p><p>“No,” Dean replies, shaking his head again. “Thank fuck. No, this is something else. So, uh, remember how I got busted? Way back when? Undercover cop sent by Crowley, douchebag hired me and then arrested me with his dick in my mouth? Great guy.” </p><p>“Um…”</p><p>Dean continues, not really looking at Castiel, visibly unsettled but not showing any signs that he’s dissociating. He’s just—well, in Castiel’s opinion, <em> amped </em> is probably the best word—hyper-alert and almost vibrating off of his seat. “His name is Cole and he <em> lives </em> here now. He <em> found </em>me—”</p><p>That puts Castiel on high alert as well, and he sits bolt upright, grabbing Dean’s arm without thinking. “Are you alright? Did something happen, did he threaten you?” He relaxes—but only slightly—as Dean shakes his head, no. </p><p>“Nothing like that—no, dude, this was weirder. I uh, I saw him. Sitting at one of the high tops, watching me, pretending not to be staring whenever I looked his way. So I filled Pam in real quick and she told me to ‘try not to break anything’, but that the bar has insurance so do what I needed to do. Did I mention we love her? Anyway, I wound up dragging Cole outside, thought we were gonna dance or whatever.” </p><p>Dean pauses and Castiel waits—not very patiently—while he takes a lingering drink from his bottle. “And?” </p><p>“And...he apologized. Didn’t deny that he sorta stalked me here, but—you know, not the bad kind of stalking, I guess. Actually, the dude was fucking talkative. Had a whole lot to say, shit that sounded a little too familiar, if you know what I mean. That he was sorry, that he didn’t know what Crowley and the Knights were really like. Blackmail, family to support, big regrets, sorry for screwing you over, yada yada yada—point being, he said that he wanted to make amends.” </p><p>“That...seems suspicious.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s what I thought too. But, I dunno, Cas. We wound up sitting down and talking over a couple of beers and, I gotta say, the guy seemed sincere. It’s not like I’m any stranger to having the wool pulled over my eyes by Crowley and Co, so who am I to judge?” Dean shrugs. “When Cain took over this chapter of the Knights, Cole grabbed his out with both hands and ran. Say what you want, but that tells me all I need to know. He wanted to leave the corruption of the city police behind, start over somewhere new. Guess he heard they were hiring locally here, and—”</p><p>“He’s not working at the prison, is he?” Castiel’s willing to give this man the benefit of the doubt, if that’s what Dean wishes. However, opportunely filling Alastair’s vacant spot would be one coincidence too many to simply overlook.</p><p>“Nah,” Dean replies. “Local force. Said it’s mostly walking drunks home and citing open containers on the beach, real cushy gig. Boosts his story, if that’s true.”</p><p>Castiel relents, leaning back against the cushions and tipping his head from side to side. “From what I’ve seen of our boys in blue, it rather is. I’m fairly certain they have only one working vehicle and a four-by-four for beach patrol.” </p><p>Dean snorts. “Yeah, well. Anyway, Pam let me clock out early and we—what’s the phrase? ‘Parted on good terms’. I told him our shit was water under the bridge, and yeah. He seemed...really grateful.” As Dean finishes recounting this part of the story, his body relaxes and he sits back, body heavy where he slumps against Castiel’s side. “I guess that’s it.”</p><p>“You’re rattled, though.” </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“But you believe he meant well?”</p><p>“I think so.” The frown returns to Dean’s face. “I mean, what would he have to gain from embarrassing himself by apologizing like that? Not exactly a fun gig, eating humble pie.”</p><p>“True,” Castiel concedes. “So then, why are you worried?” Dean is quiet for a moment, chewing on his thumbnail. He opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, there’s a knock at the door. Castiel sits upright, exchanging a glance with Dean that shows him to be just as surprised at the interruption. “Any chance Sam is still around?”</p><p>“No, Dean replies quickly. “No, he has class on Sundays, freaking overachiever.” </p><p>“It’s after midnight, who would be visiting?”</p><p>Cautiously, Castiel makes his way to the door and steps up to the peephole. It’s a bit of a waste, the lights being on and the silhouette of shadows moving behind the curtains would have already given away that someone is home. After everything that’s happened tonight, Castiel probably should have expected the last person on earth who should be standing outside to be exactly who <em> is, </em>but apparently he hasn’t learned his lesson about the universe yet. </p><p>
  <em> No good deed goes unpunished. Every sin, great and small, you pay for them all.  </em>
</p><p>He opens the door, doing his best to look far less ruffled than he feels and hoping beyond hope that Dean has the good sense to stay seated on the couch, out of sight. He doesn’t, of course (because <em> Dean), </em> moving to stand behind Castiel just as soon as the door swings wide.</p><p>Castiel swallows hard and fights against a desert-dry mouth to greet his visitor, who is dressed casually and holding a bottle of wine with a bow on it.</p><p>“Naomi.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Trials, lots of them, legal and patience. Alfie isn’t coping as well as Dean, but this time, Dean’s there to save the day. Unfortunately, as Castiel says, no good deed goes unpunished.</p><p> </p><p>I'm thinking about commissioning some art for this fic, if anyone reading along would be interested, let me know. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Still sitting at the table, Dean blinks before downing half a mug of wine in one go and shaking his head. “Dude,” he says. “Am I drunk, or did she just quote <i>Buffy?</i>” </p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright so, things are coming together...I have the remaining outline split into a tentative final chapter count that will hopefully not change, although if it serves the flow, that could happen. I think 6 more is right and we will be done by mid-May, though?? Also I invented a word in this chapter and I refuse to remove it. Sorry not sorry, it's a really good word.</p><p>Warnings (**VERY SPOILERY**):<br/>—&gt;Life piling up, brief moments of depression/anxiety/panic.<br/>—&gt;Stalking, aggressive flirting/creepy courting: Cole towards Dean that culminates in a physical fight. Minor injuries/mention of blood (not Dean, Dean kicks his ass).<br/>—&gt;Name-calling (Cole calls Dean a whore).<br/>—&gt;A gun and a murder attempt (Alfie to Crowley) that Dean stops as it’s happening. Brief gun handling. (this is not the murder mystery you're waiting for, lol).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This is <em> the </em> single, weirdest group hang Dean has ever been roped into. And he’s counting the time Crowley made him sit and watch sci-fi reruns in H1 for what felt like days. Considering that event included Crowley and Gordon holding a spirited debate on whether the chemistry between two of the male leads in the soapy drama was intentional or not, the bar is...what’s the word Dean’s looking for? Oh, right. <em> Low</em>. </p><p>It’s not as if there’s a bedroom or a study he can excuse himself and run off to, either—this is a freaking one-room <em> cabin. </em> Dean’s never minded before—the place is damn cozy—but today, he’d give his left freaking nut for some <em> space. </em> It doesn’t help that the only buffer for this whole awful thing is <em> wine</em>—if Dean were Cas, he would have forgone the entire pretense of politeness, ditched Naomi’s bottle, and headed straight for the whiskey. Pretty doubtful anyone would have actually been upset.</p><p>Naomi hasn’t said much. <em> Nobody </em>has said much. The three of them are just sitting around the kitchen table with their subpar alcohol, some drinking faster than others (Dean). As is his right, since the vibe is awkward, estranged-family Thanksgiving, complete with a table invader who belongs with his fellow kids and not stuck between two adults having a fight with their eyeballs.</p><p>Also, Cas’ rental cottage only came with two wine glasses. This apparently translates to Dean drinking out of a novelty mug that has a cartoon clam on it and a speech bubble which says, “Don’t be Shellfish, Pass the Sugar!” He’s very seriously thinking about retracting those “I love yous,” carelessly doled out earlier before this extreme humiliation. Then again, Cas might be losing his entire career tonight, so maybe Dean should just cut him some slack and drink his shitty grape juice quietly. </p><p><em> Finally, </em>Castiel breaks. “Is this—should I come and collect my things in the morning, or will my security pass be deactivated by then?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes dart from his boyfriend to the woman he only really knows as Warden, watching as her steel-blue eyes narrow a little. He’s gotta hand it to her, even at midnight on a Saturday, the chick is put together and radiating power. By all rights, the turtleneck sweater and dress pant combo she’s rocking should soften her up, but it doesn’t, not even a little. Naomi’s the kind of woman who can walk confidently down a dark alley in the worst part of town without a care in the world. Her attitude is nothing but, “Try it, you won’t like what you find.” </p><p>As such, the whole room feels tense and like it’s bracing, but then she sighs, frowns, and reaches for the near-empty wine bottle to refill her glass. “Castiel. You wear blinders when it comes to Dean and to your own shortcomings,” Naomi says, before taking a sip. Cas doesn’t reply, just fiddles with the stem of his own cup. “I had my suspicions about the nature of your relationship when Dean was still an inmate, but I hoped—I <em> hoped </em>you would eventually confide in me, after he was released.”</p><p>Dean can’t miss Cas’ sharp intake of breath, and he also can’t help himself, reaching for Cas’ hand underneath the table. He’s <em> ninety </em>percent sure the move doesn’t escape Naomi’s notice, but she doesn’t make a comment. Cas doesn’t reject him either, allowing Dean to twine their fingers together, to provide what little comfort he can in the moment.</p><p>Across the table, Naomi clears her throat. “I’m not firing you. If I wanted to do that, I would have already done it. I won’t lie, though. This—” She wags a finger between Dean and Cas, pointed stare growing hard. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed.”</p><p>Castiel pushes his glass away and says quietly, “I love him.”</p><p>“That doesn’t make it right,” Naomi snaps back. Cas opens his mouth to say something else but stops when she holds up an open palm. “On the other hand, nothing about Dean’s situation while incarcerated was normal. Nothing about the things <em> we </em>did to set the prison to rights were entirely ethical or above board, and I suppose in many ways, I’m as guilty as either of you are when it comes to crossing lines.” </p><p>Beside Dean, Castiel looks stricken, but Naomi isn’t done yet. “Just tell me one thing,” she continues. “And don’t lie to me, you know that I’ll know. Is this—what’s between you—is it real, and is it a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing? Or do I need to worry that when you break up, Castiel will return to bobbing for boyfriends in the Bay’s pool?” </p><p>“That’s perhaps the most glib thing you’ve ever said in my presence,” Castiel replies. </p><p>“When in Rome,” Naomi says with a shrug, and if Dean isn’t mistaken, she actually fucking <em> smiles.  </em></p><p>“I know that this is serious,” Castiel continues, sitting forward and withdrawing his hand from Dean’s to do his best “earnest pupil” impression. “Naomi, I promise, the circumstances that led us here are unique. I’m not—I won’t—try and justify my relationship with Dean.” Castiel pauses here to glance in his direction, accidental punctuation of his point. Dean expects to see regret and shame on his face, but all that’s staring back is a whole lotta love. </p><p><em> Oops, </em>they’re holding hands on the table, now.</p><p>“It wouldn’t—couldn’t—happen again. Not in a thousand years or a million different universes, and I know that doesn’t change anything, but there it is. Do with it what you will.”</p><p>Naomi polishes off the liquid left in her glass and looks at Castiel with intent. “<em>Stop </em>blowing me off on Fridays,” she says, which seems to shock Castiel back into the present.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’d like to resume our Friday night sessions. Complaining and alcohol. I found it rather useful to my attitude and general mental health. Didn’t you?”</p><p>“Actually, yes,” Castiel admits.</p><p>“Uh, if the elephant in the room can chime in?” Dean pipes up for the first time since Naomi appeared in their doorway, still feeling like he’s third-wheeling this whole thing. “Bar has wine specials on Friday nights. You guys can basically drink for free whenever I work. I’ll even, you know, stay behind the bar so you can keep your plausible deniability or whatever.”</p><p>“You’re working?” Naomi asks, unable to hide her surprise. “Good for you Dean, that’s excellent news.” </p><p>“Uh, thanks.”</p><p>“And yes, that would be satisfactory. Castiel?” </p><p>“Of course,” he replies immediately. “Naomi, I’ve—I’ve missed our time together, but I thought that sharing what’s going on with Dean would be a burden to you.”</p><p>“It is,” she retorts. “But none of us are perfect.” Naomi drums flawlessly manicured nails on the table for a few moments before pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. “I should let you get back to your night.” Mirroring her action, Castiel stands, and walks with his boss towards the door until she turns again to face him. “You <em>are </em>my friend, Castiel, and I care about you,” she says. “I want you to be happy. We never had this conversation.” </p><p>“Of course,” Castiel agrees with a nod. He reaches out to touch her sleeve, a look on his face that Dean recognizes all too well. It’s the one Cas gets when he’s dying to say something and has no clue how to spit it out. </p><p>
  <em> Oh, and we’re going for it.  </em>
</p><p>“But—<em>why? </em>You’re risking—well, everything, for me?” </p><p>
  <em> Guess we’re shooting for eloquent tonight.  </em>
</p><p>Naomi tips her head to the side and contemplates Castiel for a long moment before replying. “I don’t know,” is what she finally comes up with. “I suppose...both you and Dean have taught me something about shades of gray.” </p><p>“Gray?” Castiel echoes faintly. <em> Real smooth. </em></p><p>Naomi rolls her eyes. “What do you expect me to say? Yes, it’s terribly simple, Castiel. The good guys are always stalwart and true. The bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies and everybody lives happily ever after.” Castiel’s forehead knits together in confusion as Naomi pats him on the shoulder. “That’s a fairytale,” she says, opening the door. “Nothing is black and white.”</p><p>And then she’s gone.</p><p>Still sitting at the table, Dean blinks before downing half a <strike>glass</strike> mug of wine in one go and shaking his head. “Dude,” he says. “Am I drunk, or did she just quote <em> Buffy?”</em> </p><p>***</p><p>Despite the drama of that Saturday night, life continues more or less unchanged, though all the various things that happened are never far from Dean’s mind. Cas’ either—not that he’s sharing with the class—but it’s obvious. Having Naomi “in the loop” or whatever should be a weight off of his shoulders, but Cas being the ethical guy he is, Dean’s pretty sure he just feels like he’s spreading depravity, pulling others down into his questionable choices. At least twice a week now, Cas is arriving home floating the idea of quitting his job at the prison, but he never follows through. </p><p>For Dean’s part, he’s got his own crap piling up. Sam’s pulled back on trying to get him to leave Cas and move back to the city, but something tells Dean it’s not because anything’s shifted on his end. Sam just knows a lost cause when he sees one, especially when it comes to trying to change Dean’s mind. That hasn’t kept him from calling to check in daily, though. Annoying, maybe, but Dean’s never sorry to hear from his little brother and selfishly kind of likes the increased contact, even if it means Sam worries. </p><p>Not to mention, having Sam in his ear all the time leads directly to Dean being in the know about everything Crowley—specifically, the when and where of his upcoming court date. <em> Un</em>fortunately, the date and the basic facts of the appeal are all that Sam knows, and those are nothing useful, either. Crowley’s counsel is appealing on a technicality, the filings say nothing of strategy or any other bullshit he’s almost <em> definitely </em>going to pull. Sam does suggest that him being confined to solitary could turn into an advantage—Crowley’s lawyers will likely lean on emotional distress and God knows what else to swing the outcome in his favor.</p><p>Either way, the possibility that Crowley might be roaming the streets a free man in just a few short weeks is pretty fucking horrifying, as far as Dean is concerned. Who the hell knows what loyalists he still has out there, what resources he can tap into outside of prison that haven’t been accessible on the inside?</p><p>But Dean holds it together, does his best not to panic. It’s not like there’s anything any of them can <em> do </em>but continue to live their lives and take each day as it comes. It’s not as if he’s going to call up Cain and strike some kind of deal—nothing is worth that cost.</p><p>After sitting on Sam’s revelation for a few days, Dean makes a decision. After a bit of soul-searching, he sucks it up, finds the balls to do one of the hardest things he’s had to do since leaving prison. It’s not fun and it’s not easy, but it’s the right thing, and it’s what he’d want anyone else to do for him.</p><p>He calls Alfie. Predictably, the kid doesn’t take the news well, which is maybe an understatement. As Dean holds the phone to his ear and waits, Alfie goes dead silent, starts hyperventilating, and then hangs up on Dean, in that order. Dean’s a hot second away from taking off for the city where he knows Alfie has an apartment, when he gets a text.</p><p>
  <em> I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Just panicked a little...scared. </em>
</p><p>“You and me both, kid,” Dean mutters.</p><p>If all that wasn’t enough piled onto the <em> very </em> full plate Dean’s already rocking, there’s Cole. When the guy first showed up at the bar and wanted to make nice, Dean actually thought that was kind of cool. Hey, if he was the guy working Step Nine, there’d be a bunch of people on <em> his </em> amends list that probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him, too. Dean sympathizes. He can respect the guts it took for Cole to seek him out at all, never mind admit he was wrong <em> and </em>apologize.  </p><p>That was then, this is now. Over the last couple of weeks, Cole has been turning up “spontaneously” at the same places Dean just happens to be with increasing frequency. At first, Dean didn’t connect the dots. After all, this is a small town, there are only so many places <em> to </em>go, period. Somebody frequenting the same bar every single night was more likely to be a symptom of a problem with alcohol or just an extreme lack of friends than anything else. Considering that Cole was new in town, Dean barely thought anything of it.</p><p>Even when the guy started showing up at other spots—the bank, the hardware store, the supermarket—again, <em> small </em> freaking town. And Dean’s not full of himself, pretty much the opposite. The idea that anyone would even <em> care </em>to stalk an ex-con, ex-sex worker, bartender-wanna-be doesn’t really track inside his head. So Dean ignores it, for as long as he can. </p><p>Until one day, when things abruptly become crystal-fucking-clear with no warning.</p><p>It’s a random weekday, nothing special about it, unless you count the fact that it’s the day before Crowley’s trial and Dean wants to do literally <em> anything </em> but think about <em> that</em>. Naturally, he’s working out his tension the best way he knows how (sans Cas): manual labor.</p><p>Like most days, Cas is at work, so there’s no one to help Dean claw his way out of plumbing hell. Both of the bathrooms in the Pit of Despair have to be completely gutted, which translates to multiple days of backbreaking work with nothing but sheer will and a sledgehammer. Plus, it’s <em> hot, </em>and the A.C. isn’t functioning yet, so Dean’s basically drowning in his own sweat while he works, which is just awesome.</p><p>Still, anytime he feels himself getting particularly irritable or tetchy, he reminds himself that he <em> could </em>be suffering the summer heat behind bars. Trapped, in danger, and surrounded by disgusting-smelling men with impossibly bad hygiene who want to fuck him.</p><p><em> Gross, no thank you. </em>This is basically paradise in comparison.</p><p>Plus, no Cas inside the Bay. </p><p>That last thought alone is enough to have Dean jumping back into work, double-time. Hey, everything might not be perfect twenty-four seven, but his life is pretty damn good. The least he can do is appreciate what he’s been given. Also, the dumpster he and Cas rented is only theirs for another two days, so. Time is money.</p><p>Armful after armful of tiles and crumbling grout get carted out to the trash. Rinse and repeat until both of the bathrooms are mostly clear, all the way down to the concrete slab (downstairs) and the wooden studs (upstairs). By the end, Dean’s muscles are crying and he’s pretty sure he’s inhaled more dust than is strictly healthy, plus what isn’t in his lungs is stuck to his sweaty skin. It’s a real sexy look, one he’s glad Cas isn’t here to see (or smell). </p><p>Preoccupied with thinking about getting clean, cobbling together dinner, and (since last night wasn’t a nightmare night) getting laid (in that order), Dean’s all up in his head while he leaves and locks the house. He’ll blame that later when he’s trying to figure out why he didn’t <em> see </em> Cole standing there in the middle of the walkway, staring at him. Holding <em> flowers. Flowers.  </em></p><p>Dean stops dead in his tracks when he spots the guy, one foot still on the porch, the other on the top step. The world wobbles a little, the way it always does when something is <em> off, </em> when Dean’s in danger of dissociating. Cole—for all intents and purposes—looks like a normal guy. Gel-spiked hair, clean white t-shirt and cargo shorts, skater sneakers. He doesn’t have a weapon, he isn’t on the defensive—in fact, he’s smiling. He looks <em> friendly.  </em></p><p>Kind of. Dean’s experiences with Crowley, his time in jail in general? All of it taught him how to pick up on when something is <em> wrong </em> pretty damn quick. To recognize when someone’s intentions towards him are less than noble. And this? <em> Not </em> noble. All of Dean’s internal alarms are fucking <em> firing</em>. </p><p>Standing stock-still on the sidewalk, holding that stupid bouquet of flowers out like it’s something noble, on second look, Cole’s smile is tense. His teeth flash just a <em> little </em> too sharply in the late-afternoon sun. His stance is open, but his hips aren’t facing Dean—he’s ready to run, maybe forcing himself not to. <em> What the fuck is going on?  </em></p><p>“Hey,” Cole says, fake-cheerful in a way Dean’s not sure he could spot if he wasn’t looking pretty damn hard. He laughs a little, faux-bashful, ducking his head. “I know this is, uh—”</p><p>“The hell are you doing here?” Dean blurts out, walking forward but not quite into arm’s reach. He’s not an idiot. “Have you been following me?” </p><p>Cole looks taken aback, and his apparent genuine surprise makes Dean second-guess his own read on this thing, just for a second. “No, I—what?” </p><p>“Following me,” Dean repeats carefully, stepping onto the lawn so that he can keep a safe distance as he rounds Cole. Baby’s chrome glints out of the corner of his eye, so close and yet so far. Dean tries desperately to remember if he locked her doors this morning. He doesn’t think so, but he’s not sure enough to stake his life on it.</p><p>“I just—I brought you flowers,” Cole says, shaking the bouquet weakly. This is the most bizarre interaction Dean’s had in a while—the guy’s <em> words </em> suggest he’s trying to ask Dean out, but his body language, his <em> actions, </em> they <em> scream </em>something completely else. Dean can see it in his wild eyes, his nervous movements. Everything about this is wrong, all wrong.</p><p>Dean changes tack. “Listen man,” he tries, “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but you can walk away. Okay? Nothing’s so bad that you can’t just turn and walk away, forget—forget whatever it is that made you think—”</p><p>“What?” Cole replies, and his voice has gone almost an entire octave higher than it was. Holy fuck. There’s sweat beading on his forehead and pouring down the sides of his face, and Dean is one hundred percent sure it’s not only from the heat. Cole takes a step towards him and Dean takes an equally giant step back. “No, man, hey, you’ve got the wrong idea. I just—I thought we hit it off, thought we were getting along good.”</p><p>Dean frowns, looking around for some help, an escape, a freaking alibi, <em> anything. </em> The only movement he sees is that of some curtains rustling inside the house across the street. Nosy freaking neighbors, but no one comes out. <em> Of course they don’t.  </em></p><p>Turning his attention back to Cole, Dean finds him still closer and offering up the flowers almost hysterically. “Please, man,” he says, and Dean is getting the distinct impression that he’s not begging for Dean to say yes to the dress. Or the date, whatever. “C’mon, go out with me. We’ll have a good time.” </p><p>“Yeah, uh, gonna have to pass on that, buddy. In case you couldn’t tell by the insane line of hickies on my neck—” Dean pulls down the collar of his shirt for emphasis, Cas was fuckin’ <em> wild </em>a couple of nights ago. “—I’m happily taken.”</p><p>In front of him, Cole visibly cringes as he steps forward into Dean’s space, shoves the flowers into his chest and says, “You’re a <em> whore</em>. You’re taken by whoever pays.” </p><p>Now, Dean’s done a <em> lot </em>of self-work over the past year. In and outside of the prison, with and without Cas. With Mia’s help, he’s come leaps and freaking bounds from where he was the day he walked out of the Bay’s secured doors. Along the way, Dean’s learned to accept and appreciate his own worth, grown to feel proud of his strengths and forgive himself his weaknesses. </p><p>Thing is, he’s freed a lot of <em> emotions </em> along that path, too. Given himself permission to <em> feel </em> and experience things he would previously have held way under wraps. And <em> sometimes, </em>those emotions take him by surprise, overwhelm him before he has a chance to step back, sort them out, process and file them away properly.</p><p>Also, being called a whore like he’s back in H2 and nothing but a victim of Crowley’s bullshit? That’s fucking <em> triggering, </em> and Dean can say that now, because <em> triggers aren’t weakness, they’re trauma. </em>Dean knows that, knows that very well, at least when people aren’t blindsiding him with it like a weapon.</p><p>“<em>You’re a whore.</em>”</p><p>Dean sees red. Before the rational or logical side of his brain can intervene, he’s hauling back and cold-clocking Cole across the side of his face. </p><p>“Fuck!” Cole staggers, a hand flying to his cheek, but he doesn’t go down. He straightens, and any sign of the nervous, anxious man that was here a minute ago trying to—<em>something—</em>under the cover of asking Dean out is gone. Cole cracks his neck as he rubs his jaw and it’s like watching the transformation of the Hulk, live and in person.</p><p>“Was hoping you’d do that,” he says with a grin that sends a chill down Dean’s spine. He steps into a fighting stance, holds out both of his hands, and beckons Dean in. “Let’s go then.” </p><p>In response, Dean lifts his own hands, palms out in supplication. “No,” he says. “I’m not gonna fight you!” The words are barely out of his mouth before Cole is charging forward and taking choice out of the equation. He throws a punch that Dean barely manages to dodge, the momentum sending him tripping forward, off-balance. Dean takes advantage, socking him rough and dirty in the ribs before ducking to the side and making a break for Baby.</p><p>“Please be open,” Dean mutters, huffing an “Oof!” as Cole tackles him around the waist and sends them both sprawling to the ground. They scrabble, feet scraping for purchase on the hot concrete and bodies squirming to avoid each other’s blows. Cole cries out as his fist makes accidental contact with the pavement and Dean takes his whole-body-flinch as an opportunity to roll to the left. He kicks a foot out before he’s even vertical, landing the sole of his boot dead-center to Cole’s face and laying him out flat on the ground. </p><p>It’s the break Dean needs and he runs. Thank <em> fuck </em>Baby’s door is open when he grabs the handle, ducking inside and hitting the lock just as soon as he’s in. Turning the key, the Impala’s engine fires to life just as Cole appears at his window. He’s screaming and banging on the glass, smearing it with blood that Dean would hazard a guess is from the river running steadily out of his nose. </p><p>Dean doesn’t give him so much as a cursory glance. Yanking the gear shift into drive, he spins Baby’s wheel and slams his foot down on the accelerator. They tear off down the street, Dean with a muttered apology to his best girl escaping from under his breath. It’s only as he’s rounding the corner at the end of the lane that he dares to look back. What he sees is something straight out of a horror movie—Cole standing in the middle of the road, covered in blood and screaming unintelligibly after him. </p><p>As he drives, Dean picks up his phone and hits number two on his speed dial. “Cas,” he says, as soon as his boyfriend picks up. “Any chance you can come home?”</p><p>***</p><p>One of the (many, <em> many</em>) awesome things about Cas is that he <em> believes </em> Dean, takes him at face value. There’s never been a thing Dean disclosed to him that Cas didn’t outright trust the validity of, simply because Dean asked him to do so. This whole thing with Cole is no different, and while Dean’s shaken to the core and not entirely sure he even <em> gets </em> what exactly <em> did </em>happen back at the house, at least Cas is there for him. </p><p>Cole doesn’t follow him home. No police officers show up to arrest him for fighting (an accusation that would go over like a lead brick with Dean’s record and recent parole, and the same reason he’s not comfortable reporting the incident himself), so by the time midnight rolls around, Dean’s <em> finally </em>beginning to accept that all is quiet on the western front. Doesn’t stop him from heading to the window and peaking around the curtains every three minutes or so, though. </p><p>“We could still go into the city tonight, get a hotel room,” Castiel offers. Calm as ever, he’s already undressed and half-tucked into bed, reading a book by the bedside lamp. It’s the only light Dean will let him turn on, because while this isn’t his technical address, Dean’s pretty sure the motel owner’s willingness to cover for him doesn’t extend to lying to cops. “You might sleep better, and then you wouldn’t have to drive in tomorrow morning for the trial.”</p><p>Releasing the curtain from his fingertips, Dean sighs. “First of all, we’d have to drive separately, since you have that meeting tomorrow.” Cas has some something-or-other bullshit in the morning that’s keeping him from accompanying Dean to Crowley’s trial. Secretly, Dean thinks that’s probably for the best—the two of them are already more public than they should be, no need to basically hold a coming out party at the damn courthouse. “And that’ll mean you’re riding the bike like twenty miles at the asscrack of dawn—don’t lie to me, Cas, that’s no one’s idea of a good time.” </p><p>Anyway, Alfie should be there, and Dean foresees being preoccupied with keeping the kid from doing something stupid. They’ve called and texted back and forth a few times since Dean initially clued him in, and each time, Alfie seems...<em> off. </em>Nothing he can pin down or put his finger on, but as Dean’s learned himself, trauma is wild. Sometimes, it makes terrible ideas sound like really good ones. If nothing else, he owes Alfie the moral support. </p><p>When he stops fidgeting and turns his attention back to Castiel, the man is looking at him intently, book forgotten. It’s one of those moments where Dean can’t help but face the fact that Cas has made him the center of his world, and wonder if he deserves that kind of credit. “You know that I’ll happily do it for you,” is all Cas says. </p><p>Dean exhales, guilt flooding his system. He takes one last look out the window before abandoning it (and the still-empty parking lot) for the night. Shirking his clothes, Dean leaves them behind in a trail as he crawls into bed. “Put the stupid book away,” he barks before nipping at Cas’ ear. “And turn out the light. We got better ways to deal with stress than talkin’ about it.” </p><p>The smile on Cas’ face and the speed with which he moves to reciprocate suggests he’s only been waiting for the chance, which makes Dean feel worse. God, he’s still terrible at not getting overly caught up in his own bullshit at everyone else’s expense. Cas’ body fits itself to his side and Cas’ hands begin to wander, but now, Dean’s distracted.</p><p>“Cas?” he says, hating himself for the way Castiel stops planting kisses down the side of his neck. </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“You’d uh, you’d tell me if I was treating you like my therapist, right? If you weren’t...getting what you needed from me?”</p><p>“Yes,” Cas replies simply, before resuming his ministrations. “I would.” </p><p>Dean dodges Cas’ attempt to draw him into a real kiss, just slightly. “You know that implies you <em> are </em>getting what you need, right?” </p><p>Castiel tips his head to the side, one corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement, along with the eyebrow. “Of course, Dean.” </p><p>“Well, alright,” Dean tells him. “So long as you’re not just humoring me.” </p><p>Cas’ answering kiss feels pretty damn certain. </p><p>***</p><p>Crowley’s trial has attracted a decent amount of media attention. The upheaval in the Knights and the corresponding scandal in the D.A.’s office and the city police department were no small stories when all of it unfolded. Dean knew that, but he was also kind of <em> preoccupied </em> at the time, and anyway, the city isn’t close to where he and Cas live. He was <em>hoping </em>that by now, the world might have let it go.</p><p>As Dean exits Baby where she’s parked in the attached garage to the courthouse, he peers over the concrete half-wall to look down on the street and the steps leading up the building. To his dismay, the area is swarming with reporters and cameramen.</p><p>
  <em> So much for hope. </em>
</p><p>It’s strange, because while Dean <em> knew </em> that other people were at least peripherally aware that <em> something </em> was going on, <em> this </em> story was always background to his own. It’s a cold reminder that you’re only ever the main character in your own tale, which may or may not be that compelling to anyone else. Turns out, Crowley’s story holds a <em> lot </em>more interest to the world than Dean’s ever did—and that’s concerning. With any luck, no one will recognize him here today, but it suddenly makes a lot more sense why Sam knows so damn much more than he should.</p><p>Dean makes his way down the concrete steps leading up to his parking level and out the structure’s door. He keeps his eyes peeled—for any journalists or reporters taking too keen an interest in <em>him </em>and for any possible goons of Crowley’s doing the same thing. Last but definitely not least, he looks for Alfie, who hasn’t answered any of his texts or calls for going on twelve hours now. </p><p>The crowd is pretty dense, but Dean finally spots the kid all the way on the other side, loitering near the bottom of the courthouse steps. He’s hard to read from this far away and with so many assholes in between them, but the <em> off </em>vibe Dean was getting through the phone translates pretty fucking strongly in person. Just like that, his priorities shift, and making his way to Alfie’s side takes top spot. </p><p>Shoving his way through the crush of bodies blocking the sidewalk, Dean gets about halfway there when a familiar looking vehicle comes coasting down the street. The transport van from the Bay is being escorted both in front and behind by cruisers with their lights flashing, and Dean can’t help but raise his eyebrows. He and Alfie certainly didn’t get that kind of royal treatment.</p><p>The crowd stirs into an excited frenzy, and Dean gets swept to the side, downstream of Alfie and the steps. When he cranes his head to see, the kid’s expression has changed and he looks a <em> lot </em>calmer, intent. Dean frowns, splitting his attention between Alfie and the way the back of the van is opening, a handcuffed Crowley stepping out.</p><p>Something isn’t right.</p><p>Another glance at Alfie draws Dean’s gaze to his right hand and the way it’s shoved inside his jacket. <em> Jacket. </em>It’s like eighty-five degrees in the shade this morning—the only people wearing jackets are lawyers, on-screen reporters, and, well, Crowley. </p><p>“Fuck,” Dean mutters, the pieces suddenly clicking into place. He <em> has </em>to get to Alfie, before—</p><p>“Make a path!” The police officer running point on Crowley’s protection detail stands in front of him and his smarmy-looking lawyer, one arm curved backward to shield them. Dean rolls his eyes and dips to the side as the press create a hole for them to pass. That’s about all the focus Dean can spare right now, busy disartfully clearing his own access route through the crowd. </p><p>Ignoring squawked protests and somewhat rudely shoving various people aside, Dean bolts for the edge of the stairs where Alfie is still lurking. The going is slow, and Crowley is walking almost parallel to him as he moves. Wincing involuntarily as Crowley’s familiar accent hits his ears—inevitable as he pauses to speak to reporters—Dean finds himself singularly grateful for the douchebag’s almost insane hubris. It’ll give him another few seconds to—</p><p><em> Fuck. </em> “Alfie!” The kid hears him, Dean knows he must, but his one chanced yell goes ignored as Crowley creeps closer and Alfie’s hand withdraws slowly from under its cover. “Damn it,” Dean curses under his breath, summoning all of his strength and pushing his way through the last dregs of the crowd, <em> just </em>in the nick of time to grab the kid around the waist and drag him away.</p><p>“Hey! What—Dean, no, Dean! Let me—”</p><p>Thankfully, the noise they make and the minor scene they might otherwise have caused is completely drowned out. Behind them, reporters continue to yell questions and beg for response, all of them vying for Crowley and his lawyer’s limited attention. Cameras flash and cops yell, and no one even notices the two ex-cons squabbling as one bodily hauls the other around the side of the building.</p><p>Once they’re safely out of both ear and eyeshot, concealed by the alleyway on both sides, Dean practically tosses Alfie away from him, his body half-bouncing off of the nearest wall. As soon as Dean’s hands are free, he reaches inside Alfie’s jacket and withdraws the gun he <em> knew </em>was stashed there, tucked away and just waiting to be used.</p><p>“What the hell, man?”</p><p>Alfie’s eyes are wild as he surges forward and grabs at Dean, ruthlessly (if unsuccessfully) grappling for his weapon back. “I <em> have </em> to, Dean,” he pleads. “This is our only shot! Dean, you know, you <em> know it! </em>After everything he’s done to us—this will never be over, never! Haven’t you figured it out yet?” </p><p>“Man, calm down,” Dean tries. He continues holding Alfie at arm’s length and the gun in the complete other direction with his free hand until the kid seems to give up. Alfie’s anger turns quickly to tears as he falls away from Dean and slumps heavily against the shadowed brick of the courthouse. In the patchy morning light, his mousy brown hair is dark where it’s matted from sweat, and his chest is heaving. Dean’s never seen him this worked up before, even while they were in prison and the worst of things was happening. </p><p>“Dean,” Alfie moans, turning his face into the wall. “You don’t get it—you should have let me kill him. Now it’s never going to be over.”  </p><p>Imminent danger having passed, Dean ignores the distraught kid to check the pistol—loaded, one in the chamber—and disarms it, unchambering the bullet and dropping the clip into his hand and then his pocket. The single bullet goes tumbling to the ground with a soft <em> clink. </em> Dean quickly tucks the empty gun into the back of his pants and flips his shirt over to hide its presence. After all, it’s a parole violation for <em> either </em>of them to be caught with a weapon, and there are officers swarming this place.</p><p>Taking a deep breath and letting it out to ease his rage, Dean rounds on Alfie, getting up in his space. “What the hell were you thinking? What’s <em> wrong </em>with you?”</p><p>Eyes shining, Alfie doesn’t back down. “You know exactly what I was thinking, and if you had a brain cell left in your head, you would have let me do it.”</p><p>“It’s not <em> worth—</em>”</p><p>“Isn’t it?” Alfie cuts him off, shoving Dean a little so that he steps back. “You think this is over, you think we’re out? Mark my words, Dean, you’re gonna wish you let me put a bullet in him. <em> I </em>made my choice, I was at peace with it.”</p><p>“And what?” Dean challenges. “Throw your life away to end up like <em> him? </em>Vengeance is a vicious cycle, man. After everything we fought for, this is really what you want to do? Give it all up to get on his level and spend the rest of your life behind bars again?”</p><p>In front of him, Alfie wavers, resolve dropping. His shoulders slump and tears roll freely down his face. “Yes. No, I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m so—I’m just lost.” </p><p>Dean reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “This ain’t how you make that better. How you appreciate your freedom. Look, neither of us should have come today. It was a mistake. What does it matter if Crowley gets out? He’s the one that’s gotta live with his own mistakes. We have our whole lives in front of us.” </p><p>Alfie is silent for a moment and then he nods, dragging a sleeve across his messy face. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, Dean. Sorry for—” He waves a hand around. “What should I do about—”</p><p>“Just get out of here,” Dean tells him, shoving him a little towards the mouth of the alley and the garage. Crowley will be long inside by now and Alfie is weaponless, no risk to anyone. “Go home. Forget about all this.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Alfie says, still sniffling. “Thanks, Dean.” He takes off at a slow run, rounding the corner and disappearing before Dean can really formulate a goodbye. </p><p>Glancing around, Dean takes stock of the empty alley. There are some windows high above, but from experience inside the courthouse, Dean doubts anyone is looking out. There’s no movement, no sign of life from anywhere, but for some reason, Dean still feels the hair on his arms and his neck prickle. He chalks that up to the gun pressing hot against his lower back, and forces himself to work the problem at hand instead of leaning into paranoia.</p><p>There’s a giant dumpster halfway down the alley, so Dean jogs over and peers around again before lifting the lid. Nothing remarkable inside, just big black bags of garbage, presumably waste from the courts. Without further hesitation, Dean pulls out the gun and the clip, gives them a cursory rub down, and drops them in. It’s a noiseless thing, the pieces landing softly on top of the existing trash. </p><p>Replacing the lid, Dean wipes his hands on his pants, more out of nerves than anything else. He heads back down the alleyway, eyes darting around and heart pounding in his chest. He’s <em> positive </em>that no one is around, confident that Crowley’s dramatic entrance provided enough distraction to ensure neither of them was noticed or missed. </p><p>All the same, that same feeling of <em> off </em>persists, and Dean doesn’t like it. Hesitating at the now-empty courthouse steps, he decides to actually take the advice he gave Alfie and cut ties with this whole thing. Crowley’s life has nothing to do with him, it’s time he started acting like it. Anyway, he’s got a shift at the bar tonight, plenty of time to blow off some steam by working on the house, if he gets his ass in gear now.</p><p>Maybe he should worry more about Cole, but after everything that’s transpired this morning, Dean’s tired of assholes trying to control his life. It’s all plumbing today—Dean will just keep the doors locked and if Cole shows up, he’ll stay inside and call the cops. </p><p><em> Yeah, </em> he thinks. <em> Everything is fine. Everything is totally under control. </em></p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Dean and Cas have another first, but will it be their last? Just when things were going so well, it’s time to go back to the Bay.</p><p>I promise one more explicit scene before things get crazy ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A little bubble of calm as the edges of the storm roll in.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Official 5-chapter warning! (if I can stay on the rails) :-D</p><p>Sex-related warnings: top Dean/bottom Cas, butt plugs, external prostate stim, Cas riding Dean.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Police officers, homophobic language/insults (cops—&gt;Cas), an arrest, mentions of murder, non-graphic mentions of gun violence, allusions to framing/set-up. Cas exercises some major white privilege in his interactions with the cops. I want to reiterate: the cops are VERY rude and the way they speak to Cas may be triggering.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The plumbing in the house must be sorted, because Castiel can hear water running through the pipes above his head the minute he steps inside the Money Pit. Closing the door behind him, he flips the lock—just in case—before seeking Dean out. It’s late afternoon and Dean won’t be expecting his early arrival, though he probably should be. After all, it didn’t take a long-time psychologist to figure out that <em>something </em>went wrong with Crowley’s trial. If nothing else, Dean texting that he wasn’t even going inside the building was certainly a clue.</p><p>He would have left work earlier, would have run to Dean’s side (as Castiel is perpetually wont to do). The thing is, ever since Naomi showed up at their place, Castiel has <em> also </em> been putting in overtime to prove that their relationship is <em> not </em>affecting his work. That he’s still the guy she can look to and rely on, that he’s worth the investment as both an employee and a friend, despite his missteps.</p><p>Trying his best to please everyone <em>and </em>support Dean, Castiel opted to see all of his patients and finish his documentation prior to begging off for the day. He managed to wrap things up sometime after the compound opened for rec time, no small feat. Not just that, but before he left, Castiel was honest with Naomi about where he was going and why, which she seemed to appreciate. After all, Dean’s struggles now fall under the very valid “family emergency” category, and that’s no small perk to looping Naomi in.</p><p>Gratefully receiving his boss’ permission to bail early, Castiel raced home to shower and clean up. Cliche as it might be, there is one thing in his arsenal that’s a surefire way to drag Dean out of the spiraling thoughts in his head during times like these. And, yes, sure, talking is important, but it doesn’t solve <em>everything</em>. Besides, if Castiel thought he knew Dean before, he <em> really </em>knows him now. Unquestionably, this is what Dean will want—best to anticipate the ask.  </p><p>The door to the bathroom is closed when he arrives upstairs, and Castiel takes advantage of Dean’s absence while he has it. Throwing down a couple of blankets where the bed should be, he marvels at how far the house has come and how <em> clean </em>the floors are now (construction dust notwithstanding). Castiel can’t help but admire the work Dean has put into restoring the original hardwoods, but ultimately, he’s not here to worry about the house today.</p><p>Smoothing the major wrinkles from the blankets, Castiel stands, strips, folds his clothes, and spreads himself out on top. It’s strategic positioning—above the cooler of beers and next to the bag of burgers he brought with him—all of Dean’s favorite cheering-up tools, ready and waiting. </p><p>Inside the bathroom, the water turns off. The ensuing quiet makes the sound of Dean cursing and complaining as he trips over something in his path that much more audible, and Castiel struggles not to laugh. He tilts his head as the door swings open, revealing a <em> very </em>naked Dean shamelessly rubbing a stained towel against his damp hair.</p><p>Behind him, the deconstructed room is a veritable disaster. Even from Castiel’s limited point of view, he can see that the “shower” amounts to a bare spigot pointing down into a freestanding tub—one Dean dragged over and tenuously re-piped, stubbornly determined to salvage. It’s hard to imagine that anyone could shower in it properly, but no one’s ever accused Dean of being precious. </p><p>Castiel’s about to comment on the scene as a whole—something equally brilliant and witty—but Dean’s reaction to his presence is...unexpected, to say the least.</p><p>“Holy fuck,” Dean yelps, slapping a hand to his chest with a loud, smacking sound. He stumbles backward, hitting his legs on the tub and nearly toppling over into it. He manages to right himself, chest heaving and lips parted around a gasp as he holds up an accusatory finger. “Damn it, Cas, you scared the shit out of me.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Castiel apologizes quickly, frowning as his plan seemingly goes sideways. Feeling overexposed, he reaches to pull the top blanket across his body, but Dean clocks the move and is across the room like a shot, water droplets flying, dick swinging in the wind. </p><p>“Oh, <em> hell </em>no,” Dean protests, practically falling on top of Castiel in his haste to shove the blanket away and press their bodies together. His skin is soft and damp and he smells oddly familiar, in a way Castiel can’t quite place. “I said you scared me, doesn’t mean I’m not buyin’ what you’re selling.” Dean knees his way in between Castiel’s legs and gets to work dragging his tongue over a collar bone rather enthusiastically. “Mmm, just what the doctor ordered.”</p><p>“You know that I don’t appreciate those type of jokes,” Castiel complains, shoving at Dean’s chest half-heartedly. He relents, of course, when Dean pays his protest no mind, instead slotting their hips together in a devious effort to distract. That <em> is </em> precisely what Castiel came here to do, but still. <em> Devious little— </em></p><p>As Dean’s mouth cuts a path along the underside of his jaw, Castiel catches another whiff of his freshly-washed hair. “Did you—Dean, you smell like the Bay! In a bizarrely clean way, but definitely, <em> distinctively </em> Bay-like.”</p><p>Against his skin, Dean snorts. “Yeah, had some stolen toiletries cluttering up my car. Hey, it was that or the dish soap I keep around to remove grease and what am I? A duck in an oil slick? Nah.”</p><p>That flippant response sort of surprises Castiel, who’s gotten used to even the vaguest references to the prison sending Dean into a foul mood, at the very least. Prior to this conversation, he wouldn’t have ruled the place itself out as being an actual trigger, but now? It would appear that Dean went <em> out of his way </em> to find and use something that came directly from the place without any issue doing so.</p><p>That’s—that’s <em> progress, </em>the tangible kind, and Castiel is damn proud.</p><p>Which makes this an opportune moment for Dean to find the <em> other </em>treat he brought along, in addition to the food and the beer. Castiel readies for it as Dean’s hands start to wander, hips rolling in an increasingly regular rhythm. Dean kisses him, enthusiastic as hell and licking into his mouth with a pleased little sound as the palms of his hands press hot and smooth down Castiel’s sides. It’s intoxicating, heavy as Dean’s body is on top of his. Pointedly so—probably to keep Castiel in his place after that move with the blanket—but Dean seems to realize that’s not going to last.</p><p>“I know you like being on top,” Dean murmurs, right before he grabs Castiel’s hips and uses his own weight as leverage to roll them over. Castiel can’t help but laugh as the world spins and flips and he winds up straddling Dean’s belly with one hand braced on a lovely, firm pec. Staring up at him, Dean bites his bottom lip as his hands knead at Castiel’s ass cheeks, eyebrows flying nearly to his hairline as his fingertips brush over what’s nestled in-between.</p><p>“Whoa there, cowboy! Damn, Cas. You, uh, failed to mention the toy surprise...”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes narrow even as exploits his new position. He grinds down until Dean’s hips twitch in search of more friction before swiftly pulling away. “I am not a cereal box, Dean,” he chastises. </p><p>Beneath him, Dean just shrugs and fails to <em> not </em>look like the cat who got the cream, obnoxiously biting back a delighted smile. “I dunno, sunshine. You both—”</p><p>Clamping a hand over Dean’s mouth, Castiel raises an eyebrow as he leans down. “I would think very carefully about what is on offer here and what you think you might want to say next.” Even with his face mostly obscured by Castiel’s sizable hand, it’s obvious when Dean’s tiny smirk evolves to a full-fledged grin that brightens his entire face and causes his eyes to sparkle.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel warns, as the man reaches up to pry his fingers back one by one. Holding eye contact, Dean gives Castiel’s palm a tantalizing lick that goes all the way up his middle finger and worse, looks entirely pleased with himself doing it. He makes sure to swirl his tongue around the tip and to linger while sucking a little—all the while feigning the worst faux-innocent expression that history has ever recorded.</p><p>Castiel does his best to look unaffected. Even still, as soon as Dean’s mouth is free, they’re falling together and kissing with abandon once more. Castiel’s fingers twist into the damp locks of his hair as Dean moans and arches under him, his own hands finding their way back to Castiel’s thighs and ass to palm at them roughly. </p><p>“Are you ready for this Dean?” Castiel murmurs into his mouth. “We don’t have to, we can do anything you want, <em> anything—”  </em></p><p>“I want this,” Dean replies quickly, jerking Castiel’s head back by smoothing the hair away from his forehead. “Love you, Cas,” he says softly, straining to reach Castiel’s lips with his own from his semi-pinned position. Castiel can feel the weight and warmth of Dean’s hand on his hip, pulling him down, wanting him closer. “Do you need—”</p><p>“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Castiel whispers back. He reaches over to fish out the bottle of lube he left conveniently tucked under his folded jeans. “It’s just—it’s been a while, prep or not, so be kind to me.” </p><p>“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean says, laughing a little before looking up at him <em> so </em>damn fondly it sparks a feeling like Castiel’s heart might explode inside his chest. “Always.” </p><p>Castiel wasn’t lying or exaggerating when he said that it had been a while since he’d been in this particular position. Balthazar enjoyed topping more than Castiel cared either way, but since they split, he hasn’t had either the occasion or the inclination. This sort of intimacy is, in his opinion, <em> too </em> intimate (and too much work) for a casual hookup. That is also very likely why he and Dean haven’t attempted it thus far, either. Like it or not, it’s a significant step <em> and </em>an exercise in both trust and vulnerability.</p><p>Tonight though—this feels like the right time, for reasons Castiel can’t quite put into words. Not everything has to be a <em> big </em> moment, and on the floor of an unfinished house, this definitely isn’t. It’s just that—for whatever reason—this still <em> feels </em>like one.</p><p>Despite all that, the act itself? It’s so much <em> softer </em>than Castiel expects or remembers it being in the past. But then again, so many things he does with Dean are. So much of his life with Dean carries that same energy.</p><p>Beneath him, Dean slicks himself up, plays with the plug a little before popping it out and tossing it aside. It hits the blanketed floor with a quiet thud that Castiel thinks can’t be louder than the sound of his own heart pounding away in his ears. Dean holds his cock steady while Castiel sinks down, their eyes still locked on each other, no care for anything else in the world. In fact, as far as Castiel is concerned, the rest of the world simply ceases to exist, and that’s a beautiful thing.</p><p>Dean isn’t small, is satisfyingly <em> thick</em>, and the stretch of him pushing inside is enough to have Castiel closing his eyes, dropping his head back to breathe deeply as he works to adjust. He focuses on Dean’s hands soothing down over his thighs, his nails scratching across his ribs, and the quiet, soothing nonsense he’s murmuring for Castiel’s benefit.</p><p>Having Dean fully seated isn’t painful, exactly, but it’s not <em> pleasurable </em>either. At least, not until Dean’s fingers brush teasingly over Castiel’s cock before working their way intently in-between their joined bodies, clearly on a mission. Castiel’s eyes are still closed when he feels two knuckles press firmly into the tender skin behind his balls, and the unexpected sensation makes him groan.</p><p>“Magic,” he manages, somewhat breathless, rocking down in an effort to get Dean to do it again, which he does.</p><p>The pressure to his prostate is shockingly tingly and delicious, no less intense than when it comes from the inside. Castiel sighs and rolls his hips a little, sliding up Dean’s cock a few inches and then back down. He’s both pleased and relieved to find the movement smooth and easy, thanks in part to Dean’s generosity with the lube. </p><p>Slitting his eyes open, Castiel finds Dean still watching him intently, one hand buried between their groins and one tucked behind his own head like a pillow. “You good, baby?”</p><p>Castiel licks his lips and nods, rolling his hips again experimentally, switching to little circular movements when it goes well. With the help of Dean’s clever fingers, everything is shifting slowly but surely into that familiar, warm sensation he’s looking for.</p><p>“Very good,” Castiel replies, all breathy and caught against a moan when Dean’s fingers do that <em> thing </em>again. “Where did you learn that? Why haven’t you done it before?” he demands.</p><p>Dean smirks, and it’s annoyingly adorable. “Trick of the trade,” he says lightly, prompting Castiel to raise an eyebrow. Dean’s not usually <em> that </em>glib about his history, unless—</p><p>
  <em> Unless he’s lying. </em>
</p><p>“So you learned on yourself,” Castiel supplies, filling in the obvious blanks as Dean’s cheeks color. “Dean, your dick is in my ass. I hardly think this conversation should be a source of embarrassment.” Dean rolls his eyes and starts to pull his hand back, Castiel reaching down quickly to stop him. “Either way—bless your carnal knowledge base and don’t you dare stop.” </p><p>Grin returning, Dean uses his free hand to reach up and wrap warm fingers around the back of Castiel’s neck. He uses the leverage to thrust a little, smirking when the result is Castiel unable to hold back a moan or the way his hands scrabble at Dean’s skin for purchase.</p><p>“Okay?” he asks quietly, betraying his cocky nonchalance rather easily, but Dean always does. </p><p>Castiel just nods, rolling his hips again to find his own rhythm. After a minute or two, he shrugs off Dean’s grasp as he relaxes into the steady pace, hands pressed flat to Dean’s chest. For the most part, Dean lets him go, though his fingers still work at that sensitive spot, rapidly rearranging Castiel’s ideas about prostate stimulation as he rides the wave from both inside and out. </p><p>It’s <em>good. </em>It’s very, very good, and Castiel can’t help but wonder in passing why the hell he was holding out.</p><p>“This is—” His mouth is a little dry as he tries to give voice, tries to let Dean know how wonderful it feels, and the sticky-hot air surrounding them doesn't help. None of that matters though—the house could be on actual fire and Castiel doubts that he’d care. </p><p>The tension—that pulling of the wire that precedes an orgasm—stretches and pulls taut, the connection between their bodies and minds buzzing and intensifying as it does. Beneath him, Dean’s chest is damp and heaving, his breathing fast and his eyes dark. When their mouths come together, Castiel couldn’t say who moved, who initiated it. It’s that magnetic draw he <em> always </em> feels around Dean—the one that goes crazy when they fuck—so clearly driving <em> both </em> of them to get <em> closer, closer, closer</em>.</p><p>It’s yet another thing Castiel assumed that people—<em>his patients, specifically</em>—invented in their own heads—but here is, believing it. <em> Feeling it. </em> Sex isn’t magic: it’s hormones and nerve endings and <em> blood. </em> It’s physical, it’s simple biology—except, with Dean, it’s not. In fact, it feels almost sacrilegious for Castiel to suggest that what they create together <em> isn’t </em>wildly supernatural, exceptional in its rarity, its precious nature. </p><p>Whatever other thoughts Castiel might have about that topic get siphoned out of his head as Dean’s knuckle twists and increases the pressure behind his balls. With that, Castiel’s muscles spasm and his eyes roll back in his head on the next rolls of his hips, positioned at the perfect angle to hit his prostate from the inside. All of his muscles contract and he can <em> feel </em> more than hear Dean crying out underneath him, and then everything is fireworks and delicious, stress-melting <em> relief.  </em></p><p>“Hot damn,” Dean breathes, as Castiel rolls off and collapses in a heap beside him. “Whenever I think sex with you can’t get any better..it, uh, finish that thought for me? My brain is kind of...melty.” </p><p>“Yes,” Castiel agrees, rather solemnly. He slings a leg over Dean’s thighs and settles with his head on Dean’s chest and an arm around his belly, wincing and shifting slightly when he forgets to avoid the streaks of wetness there. Dean’s hand pats aimlessly at his head, half-stroking his hair with exhausted fingers, and Castiel sighs. “I wish we could stay here all night.”</p><p>“I can call off,” Dean offers. “Pam would understand, she’s seen you.”</p><p>Swatting him and smiling, Castiel shakes his head. “That’s the melted brain talking. Go clean up.” </p><p>“Counter,” Dean says, abruptly sitting up and attempting to drag a boneless Castiel with him, mostly unsuccessfully. “Come with me.” </p><p>His smile widens, even as Dean kisses him. “Well,” he says, “If you insist.” </p><p>***</p><p>Forty-five minutes after and a Dean that’s officially ten minutes late for work, they’re finally stumbling out of the Money Pit, neither sporting a single regret. They never did get around to discussing whatever happened at the courthouse today, but Castiel figures they have the rest of the night to talk. If it was so bad, Dean would have said something by now, anyway.</p><p>“Oh,” Castiel says, snapping his fingers as Dean unlocks Baby. “Did you make it out back at all today?” </p><p>“Oh—no, I was more in ‘smash and fix’ mode. Good thinking,” Dean replies, sliding in behind the wheel and waving Castiel off. “Take your time, I’ll just be slinging shots and waiting for some hot guy to show up so I can flirt with him.”</p><p>“Let me know if he does,” Castiel replies. “Then I can go home, drink tea, and read in peace.”</p><p>“Asshole,” Dean retorts, revving Baby’s engine. “I love you.”</p><p>***</p><p>Still unable to wipe the smile from his face, Castiel takes the long way into town. He breathes deep, enjoying the simple pleasure of a warm summer night’s air flowing past his body. As he rounds the last corner onto Main Street and approaches the square, that same smile melts away so fast, it’s as if it was never there. Funny how that works.</p><p>Turns out, Castiel was wrong about the local police squad only having one car. They have two, apparently, and both are currently parked on a diagonal, their noses pointed towards the Impala’s rear where it sits in its normal spot outside the bar.</p><p>If that was all he could see unfolding, Castiel might still be smiling. If that was all there was to this scene, his stomach might not be trying to escape through his throat. After all, two lonely police cars? The problem could be inside the bar—a robbery, a disorderly patron of some sort. Bars are notorious for that sort of thing.</p><p>Unfortunately for Castiel’s mood, clustered in between the two police cars are a handful of blue uniforms, struggling to subdue a man hopelessly fighting for his freedom. </p><p>This is, indeed, straight out of one of Castiel’s worst nightmares.</p><p>Dean’s face gets slammed against the hood of the closest police cruiser as Castiel’s bike roars to a stop just shy of its bumper. “No!” Dean is hollering, his voice pained. “You’ve got it all wrong, he was <em> stalking me!”  </em></p><p>Jumping off of his bike, Castiel yanks his helmet loose and lets it fall to the ground. A couple of the officers are already descending on him, trying to keep him at bay, but Castiel persists, despite more than one hand visibly reaching for a taser or gun.</p><p>“Sir, you have to stay back. <em> Sir!”  </em></p><p>“That’s my—” Castiel pauses, but only for a moment, trying to decide what the hell would be most effective here, what can be best used to help Dean and gain information. <em> Patient? Friend? Oh, hell. </em>“That’s my boyfriend you’re manhandling,” he growls. </p><p>One of the officers presses a hand to Castiel’s chest as he reaches the hood of the car, directly across from where Dean is being restrained. “Yeah? Well, your <em> boyfriend </em> murdered a police officer. Maybe not the guy whose side you wanna take, ‘specially when you’re surrounded by people his victim called <em> friends</em>.” </p><p>“He didn’t,” Castiel replies, sure as he knows the sun will rise in the morning. He doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “You’re wrong.” </p><p>“Damn right they are!” Dean pipes up from where his face is being smashed into the shitty blue and white paint job, only to be shoved back down rather harshly. “Cas, I swear—”</p><p>“Shut up, Dean,” Castiel replies, barely looking at him, still staring down the smirking cop that’s in his face. “Don’t say a thing. Do you hear me?” Dean grunts his assent as the officers holding him finish securing the cuffs to his wrists. A second later, he’s being hauled up and towards the cage in the back of the car.</p><p>“This is a misunderstanding,” Castiel tells his cop, his voice even. “I assure you—”</p><p>“‘Bout as well as I can assure <em> you </em> that it’s not,” the cop replies, completely unfazed. “Listen, fruit fly, your butt buddy shot one of us dead in cold blood. We have the gun and preliminary forensics show primo DNA under his nails, plus blood that ain’t his. But that’s not all,” he adds with a grin, as Castiel opens his mouth to protest. It’s kind of repulsive, the way this officer seems to get off on his supposed <em> friend’s </em> murder. “Some do-gooder townie witnessed an altercation outside her home last night. Turned in the footage from her security cameras to us just this morning. Helped us connect the dots <em> real </em>fast.”</p><p>Castiel does his damndest to keep a poker face on, but the depth of this mess is only beginning to dawn, and in truth, he doesn’t have a damn clue what to do next. He must not fare as well as he hoped, because the cop’s smile widens. “Yeah, now you’re putting the pieces together. Your boy started a fight with the victim in broad daylight. He was the last person to see him alive and he was pummeling his face in.”</p><p>There is nothing Castiel wants more in the world than to protest, to tell this asshole off, to point out that both Dean <em> and </em> his stalker—<em>the aggressor—</em>left that altercation <em> alive </em> and that no gun was involved. But while Castiel may not be a lawyer, his extensive experience with the flawed justice system has taught him that first and foremost, you <em> never </em> show your own hand. <em> Never </em> speak to cops without a lawyer present, never take the bait. He keeps his mouth shut.</p><p>Slapping his notepad against his hand, the officer makes a clicking sound with his teeth. “In case you aren’t following, that's <em> motive. </em>Enough for a judge, anyway, but I ain’t telling you nothin’ that’s not in his arrest warrant. Interesting note—Before you arrived, we offered to let the suspect go for the night, if he’d consent to a DNA test first. You know, to prove his innocence, but you can see how well that went over.” </p><p>Inwardly, Castiel curses. If only he’d gone with Dean to the bar. Could’ve, should’ve—the validity of a DNA test might have been fought in court later, Dean’s skin cells lodged under Cole’s nails is only a circumstantial tie to <em> murder, </em> after all. Plus, Dean’s own account of the incident is not just compelling, but has the advantage of being <em> true. </em> Dean’s refusal to test, on the other hand, doesn’t look very good at all. </p><p>The cop pats him condescendingly on the shoulder before rounding Castiel and getting into his car, the one that has Dean locked in the back. Before he drives away, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Courthouse is closed to visitors this time of night, don’t bother coming down. Mr. Winchester will be arraigned first thing tomorrow morning, probably processed into wherever he’s going by noon. That number will provide you the details.”</p><p>“Wait!” Castiel’s fingers close around the glass of the partway-open car window. “Processed—what about bail? He—he has a job, a family, ties to the community—”</p><p>The cop snorts. “<em>Bail? </em>Dude. Does all the gay sex eat away at your brain cells or something? He’s a recent parolee that shot a cop. Buddy, your friend here ain’t never gonna see the light of day again.” </p><p>Castiel can just barely see Dean’s pale face through the tinted glass, but he looks devastated and pleading. Castiel ignores the cop’s laugh as the car starts to move and he follows after on foot, jogging to keep up. “Don’t worry,” he calls. “Dean, don’t worry. I believe you, I love you—Dean!”</p><p>As the car pulls away, Dean is yelling something back that Castiel can’t quite make out. His shoulder is knocking against the glass, and only because the breeze is blowing in the right direction and the douchebag cop’s window remains open does Castiel finally realize what he’s saying.</p><p>“Don’t make any deals! Cas, no deals!” </p><p>“Like hell,” Castiel mutters under his breath, immediately pulling out his phone and dialing. Pam appears at his side as the two cruisers disappear down the street, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Several of the cops remain behind, on foot. The whole scene feels surreal, and for once, Castiel wonders if <em> he’s </em>having the out-of-body moment. </p><p>
  <em> How can this be happening? </em>
</p><p>“Sugar,” Pam says sympathetically, taking Castiel firmly by the elbow and guiding him inside. “Let me make you some tea.” </p><p>“He didn’t do this, Pam,” Castiel insists, the ringing phone already pressed to his ear. “He didn’t—”</p><p>“Don’t worry, Castiel, I don’t scare that easy. Plus, I know people. I got a sixth sense about good and evil, and Dean? Wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless that fly was threatening someone he cares about.” </p><p>Castiel has to nod his thanks, because the line clicks open on the other end and his priorities aren’t retaining Dean’s job (or even his friends)—not at the moment. </p><p>“Hello?” </p><p>
  <em> Time to go to work. </em>
</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: A fan-favorite joins the gang, nothing at the Bay is the same, Cas is distressed, and Dean only knows one thing for sure: he’s gotta get out, at any cost.</p><p>There is a very vague reference to the fan-fave that's coming next time, any guesses?! Hint: it's a line (or two) that otherwise do not make sense. :-D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>The sign outside the tent in question advertised a “pig as smart as a human!” This, of course, excited Cas to no end, and Cas’ happiness is more or less what Dean lives for these days. Unfortunately, when they stepped through the curtain and into the small space, their high expectations quickly dwindled.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There is a spoiler at the end of this note for the *story as a whole* (NOT the chapter warnings, after that) for any WIP readers who are worried about how tf this will be a happy ending. Please read it if you're concerned. I have NEVER not delivered a happy ending and I am not starting now. The trajectory will be revealed by the end of this chapter.</p><p>A HUGE Thank you to <a href="https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox">LadyRandomBox</a> for the amazing, wonderful art of our favorite friend that shows up in this chapter!! ;) Please leave her some love. &lt;3</p><p>Chapter Warnings:<br/>—&gt; reference to animal abuse/neglect (Dean handles it)<br/>—&gt; one brief, minor physical altercation<br/>—&gt; references to dissociation, depression, and anxiety<br/>—&gt; allusions/fear of police brutality/retribution on Dean’s part. While his biggest fears (of being assaulted or murdered) do not come to pass, there are passing references indicating the cops are unkind and rough with him.<br/>—&gt; Dean and Cas’ relationship does not discontinue in prison. There isn’t any sexual content besides kissing, however, their intimacy could be viewed as institutional abuse, since Dean is an inmate. The story will NOT be treating it as such as we’ve already been down this road. While Dean and Cas are mutually consenting and in love, sleeping with your therapist is never advised IRL. I can’t beat the dead horse much more than this. Also, this issue will be short-lived—this chapter only.<br/>**SPOILER NOTE ON THE ENDING**<br/>I know people are feeling unsure and scared about the twists this story is taking, so I am rewarding y’all reading as a WIP with a major spoiler. When I say “happy ending,” that does not translate to Dean and Cas being on the run for the rest of their lives, or “making it work” in prison, as inmates or otherwise, and it DEFINITELY will not be “happy in Heaven” (gag). The Money Pit, the lives they’ve built together—all of that work will not be thrown away. The inspo for this story was ALWAYS to fix the show’s biggest mistake, which was making us root for extremely traumatized characters in seemingly hopeless situations to somehow get a REAL happy ending. It’s coming. There is an entire chapter of fluff AFTER the plot wraps. Hang in there.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>About a week prior to Cole’s would-be proposal, a traveling carnival came to town. The weekend the hot mess of tents arrived and sprawled at the far end of the boardwalk happened to fall on Dean’s off-Saturday from the bar, so he and Castiel decided to check it out. They walked down from a day at the Money Pit, tipsy on whiskey, loose and playful, ready for a relaxing good time. Growing up, Dean and Sam weren’t the kind of kids who went on vacations or to the beach, didn’t visit the zoo, or go on trips to the aquarium. Hell, they were lucky if they had shoes that fit and went to bed with full stomachs even two or three days out of the week.</p><p>Cas, on the other hand, grew up <em> too </em> rich for that shit. Traveling carnivals and everything that came with them weren’t exactly on the stick-up-their-ass Novaks’ <em> leisure </em> to-do list. End of story.</p><p>So Dean’s pretty sure they can both be forgiven for not knowing exactly what they were getting into. For not understanding that these kind of fly-by-night operations are shady at best, exploitative and abusive at worst.</p><p>Blissfully unaware, they were flying pretty high on the post-sex afterglow, teasing and shoving at each other as they strolled down the street. The sun was still setting, pink and pretty in the sky overhead, and Dean could barely tear his eyes away from the way it was reflected in Cas’ irises. If they’d stopped to kiss a few more times, they might never have made it to the little fair at all. Looking back, Dean kind of thinks it’s a miracle that they did, but then again, he never underestimates the siren song of fried foods.</p><p>The carnival was dumpy. A handful of rusty rides that looked (and sounded) as if they might shirk their loosened bolts and shudder off their tracks at any second. Smartly, Dean and Cas avoided those completely, grabbing a freshly-squeezed lemonade and a funnel cake to share instead. Naturally, the best part of <em> that </em>was licking powdered sugar off of Cas’ cheek and nose, but the fried pastry wasn’t bad, either. Could’ve used a little pie filling, but it scratched Dean’s itch.</p><p>After eating, they cut a swath through the meager selection of chance games pretty quickly. Cas wound up walking away from the dart-throwing booth with an adorable little stuffed pig, which Dean incorrectly assumed would be gifted to him. No such luck—Cas was gone on it from the moment the ratty thing was placed into his hands. If real life had foreshadowing, in retrospect, Dean should have known then.</p><p>As they were leaving the stall, the bored teen working the counter made a passing crack about Cas’ affection for the plush pig. Dean bristled, but it turned out the kid was only suggesting they check out the last attraction—something in a small tent at the end of the fairway. Dean cast him the evil eye all the same, escorting Cas off with a hand on the small of his back. Maybe it was out of pure spite that he decided that <em> yes, </em> they <em> would </em>be visiting the slightly-creepy animal sideshow.</p><p>The sign outside the tent in question advertised a “pig as smart as a human!” This, of course, excited Cas to no end, and Cas’ happiness is more or less what Dean lives for these days. Unfortunately, when they stepped through the curtain and into the small space, their high expectations quickly dwindled. </p><p>It <em> stank. </em>Like sewage and animal smells; not the cute kind. An attendant glowered in one corner, perusing the town paper with disinterest. He only glanced up for long enough to bark at Dean and Cas that they’d missed the show and the attraction was closed for the day. Dean was more than happy to turn around and escape, but when he reached to grab Cas’ hand and get the hell out of there, Cas didn’t budge. Dean turned to find his big-hearted boyfriend staring doe-eyed and moony over a small, dark-haired pig huddled in the corner of a pretty nasty-looking crate. </p><p>The thing couldn’t have been taller than Dean’s knee, but with those two soulful, dark pools dominating its face, the animal’s presence suddenly took up the whole entire room. <em> Fatback</em>, the dirty nameplate proclaimed, and Dean, for once, did not appreciate the joke.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel whispered, horrified and gesturing to the pig’s leg. A rope was tied tight just above its little foot, tight enough that it had worn a sore into his skin. With the amount of grime under him (<em>probably a "him", or more dirt than Dean thought), </em> it was hard to imagine the sore wasn’t infected or wouldn’t be soon. And the pig just looked so damn <em> sad.  </em></p><p>Despite the attendant's barked instructions to leave, Cas knelt down and reached out, his fingers shaking as they slipped past the rusty bars of the cage. “Hello,” he said softly, and the pig actually grunted in response, bumping his head against Cas’ hand in greeting. They didn’t get to find out what made the pig special—or anything else for that matter—because the attendant wandered over to shoo them out, complaining all the while. </p><p>Cas’ eyes stayed glued fast to the pig until the tent was zipped firmly closed behind them.</p><p>
  
</p><p>As soon as they were alone, Cas had turned to Dean with a mix of panic and pleading in his eyes. His question wasn’t a surprise, but the words didn’t even need to leave Cas’ mouth for Dean to decide what he was going to do. He knew that even the idea was stupid, knew that Cas <em> probably </em>wouldn’t be asking if he wasn’t on the wrong side of tipsy (and God knows Dean wouldn’t have considered it if he wasn’t the same), but hell. Worse decisions had been made in his life for far less. </p><p>Regardless of reasons, that’s the story of how Dean found himself sprinting down the boardwalk under the cover of darkness with a heavy-ass pig tucked under one arm and two dopic carnies hot on his heels. Despite being disadvantage: Dean with the (oinking) dead weight, his local knowledge of the streets allowed him to duck into an alley and hide behind a dumpster while the idiots two went tearing past. Once they were gone, he darted over and down a street to the Money Pit where he’d left Cas passed out on a blanket, probably dreaming about a fully-renovated kitchen.</p><p>The <em> look </em> on Cas’ face when Dean woke him up using a snuffling pig is something he’ll <em> never </em>forget, nor was the supreme thank you Cas gave him in bed later that night. Turns out, there’s nothing Cas digs more than liberating the unjustly imprisoned.</p><p><em> No, </em> Dean is <em> not </em>projecting onto a pig, thank you very much. He’s absolutely not.</p><p>The next day, they went out and bought a sizeable dog house, a big, comfy pillow to tuck inside, and Dean took a break from renovating to build the garbage-disposal-on-hooves a pen. Fatback, as it turns out, is an incredibly low-maintenance sort of pet, and Dean actually doubts he <em> needs </em>to be locked in anywhere. After a hose bath from Cas and some tending to his leg injuries, the pig acted grateful as hell and seemed to imprint on the guy, following him around like a dog and butting at him constantly for attention. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Which is why they couldn’t allow him <em> inside </em> the house while they were working (or fucking) because no one would ever get anything done. Dean would maybe be jealous, or at least petulant that <em> he </em>wasn’t getting the thanks he deserved while a pig stole his spotlight, but Cas definitely made sure that wasn’t the case. Plus, not for nothing, but Cas was freaking adorably pleased with his new pet. Honestly, Dean’s never seen the guy so perpetually thrilled about anything. </p><p>‘Course, no good deed goes unpunished.</p><p>Which is why, when the cops walked into the bar, that’s what Dean thought they were there to handle. He actually put his hands up, ready to admit it all and throw himself on the mercy of a judge that would <em> hopefully </em> be an animal lover. It wouldn’t be pretty, sure, and yeah, Dean was nervous, but he <em> thought </em> the worst he’d get was a fine and a court-ordered apology. Not like they’d actually <em> find </em>the pig—Dean would just claim that he let him go. </p><p><em> Lot of fuss over a pig, </em>Dean remembers thinking, watching the five-plus cops with hands on their weapons storm into the bar. He threw his open palms in the air and rounded the counter, opening the pass-through with his hip. “Is this about the pig?! I swear fellas, victimless crime.”</p><p>“Dean Winchester,” the big uniform at the front of the pack called out. One thick hand was resting on his gun and from the other dangled a set of silver cuffs. “You’re under arrest for the murder of <em> Officer </em>Cole Trenton. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…” </p><p>Everything after that went a little fuzzy, though Dean <em> does </em>remember Cas showing up and failing to take him home. Remembers yelling through the tinted window at him, begging him not to do anything stupid and hoping that he heard. He remembers every hurled insult and degradation the cop driving him down to the city lockup tossed his way during their forty-five minute ride, but not much else. </p><p>The pre-booking interview especially is a blur, mostly because Dean asks for a lawyer, then shuts his trap and retreats into his head. </p><p>
  <em> This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.  </em>
</p><p>Eventually, the cops give up their needling and the interview ends, and Dean gets dragged out blinking like a baby calf into a fluorescent-bright bullpen. From there, he’s booked and fingerprinted, an updated blue-steel mugshot taken and uploaded. The handcuffs haven’t come off since they went on outside the bar, and Dean’s shoulders are really starting to feel the burn.</p><p>Throughout all of it, Dean cooperates and resists the urge to defend his honor. His past self would have been mouthing off at every turn, but Cas’ words echo like a voice from the Heavens inside his head.</p><p>“I want a lawyer,” becomes his mantra, rolling off his tongue like a prayer each and every time a cop tries to casually bait him into chatting. </p><p><em> Think of Cas, </em> Dean tells himself. <em> Think of what you have waiting out there once you blow this joint. Don’t fuck it up. These people are nothing, they don’t know you, they don’t matter. They don’t know you. They don’t know you. They don’t know you. </em></p><p>Riding the elevator down to lockup, the temperature drops what feels like ten full degrees and the fluorescent lights are replaced with dimmer, cheaper ones. Cas’ face flashes across the back of Dean’s lids when he closes them against the headache beginning to throb behind his eyes.</p><p>
  <em> I believe you. I love you—Dean!  </em>
</p><p>The city police are quieter than the townies about their disdain towards him, but they know the charges full-well, and Dean doesn’t forget that for a second. He gets subtly pinched and pushed and jerked around more roughly than he recalls ever being treated as a prostitute. It’s so consistent that by the time he’s being shoved into one of the empty holding cells beneath the precinct, he’s kind of starting to worry about making it through the night.</p><p>With his history, would anyone besides Cas and Sam even <em> question </em>a staged suicide? </p><p>The bars slam shut behind him and Dean winces, but at least the cuffs are off. The entirety of what he’s up against—the fear of the undeserved wrath of these officers—all of it really starts creeping up on Dean, threatening to overwhelm him. Hands shaking, he sits down on the pillowless, blanketless metal cot bolted to the wall and sucks in a deep breath before blowing it out slowly.</p><p>Maybe in the past, all this shit would have made him dissociate harder. Would have had him disappearing into his own head and the promise of <em> relief, </em> the false illusion of safety Dean knows his imagination can bring. Not now, though. Not today. Not after <em> everything </em> he’s been through, everything he’s <em> built.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Work the fucking problem, Winchester! </em>
</p><p>One thing at a time. First up: survive the night. Hopefully by morning, Cas has scrounged up a halfway-decent lawyer that can have him home by noon, even if the proceedings aren’t tossed outright. <em> God, </em> Dean would give anything to be curled up in Cas’ arms right now. He curses himself for taking even one minute of <em> one </em>night sharing a bed together for granted. Even the uncarpeted floor of the Money Pit sounds like sheer bliss, if Cas was the pillow under his head.</p><p>Sure would beat this place, anyway. Aside from the shitty sleeping arrangements, the whole vibe of lockup reminds Dean of a dungeon. Obviously, they’re under the precinct next to the courthouse, but this place feels a million miles away. Dungeon is definitely the right word—the <em> real </em>kind, shit you’d find below a castle or in some kind of underground spy bunker. Shadows flicker ominously and the lighting is dim enough that Dean can’t even see all the way down to the end of the row of iron-barred cages. The room just sort of...fades into darkness.</p><p>Also, it’s fucking <em>cold. </em>Cold enough that Dean can’t be entirely certain whether his trembling is from fear, anger, or incoming frostbite. Fuck, that would be just his luck.</p><p>Directly across from his cell, there’s a metal bench that runs the length of the wall before it disappears too, and Dean wonders what that’s about. <em> Probably just handy for moving all the poor saps in and out, or whatever. </em> Speaking of which, the clientele is sparse and subdued tonight. Dean can see a couple of bodies shifting around in their cages, but there’s no one even <em> in </em>the one next to his.</p><p>That’s kind of unnerving. Definitely has Dean flashing back to the “staged-suicide” worry his mind supplied earlier. Or, hell, maybe the cops will just beat him to death and say one of the dudes down the hall did it. Contemplating those fears, Dean’s fingers twist painfully into each other, his fingernails and cuticles already picked bloody. </p><p>After a while, Dean gives up staying vigilant, slumping against the wall and letting his eyes drift shut. He’s nearly asleep when the sound of footsteps coming closer echoes in the hall and has him sitting bolt upright, ready to fight. A tall, dark figure emerges into view as the person steps out of the shadows and into the light, and if Dean’s <em> ever </em>been more relieved in his life, he can’t remember it.</p><p>“Sammy,” he croaks, eyes filling with tears. Already embarrassed enough by his situation, Dean fights hard to blink the unwanted emotion away as he rushes over to the bars. “Sam.”</p><p>Sam doesn’t even hesitate, reaching through the grate and pulling Dean into the shittiest hug ever, except it’s not, it’s what Dean <em> really </em> freaking needs. He shudders a little, clinging to Sam’s suit—<em>suit?!—</em>kind of pathetically until a guard shouts at them from somewhere down the hall to knock it off or Sam’s out of there. </p><p>They separate, Sam taking a giant step back as Dean wipes roughly at his face with his t-shirt sleeve. “Dude. Don’t take this the wrong way, but how the hell are you here?”</p><p>“D.A.’s office credentials,” Sam explains, pointing to the ID badge clipped to his suit jacket. “Most of my job is bitch work, I’m actually here all the time. Well, not <em> here, </em>here, in lockup, but—” He gestures towards the ceiling, and what Dean assumes is the precinct in general. “So, everyone knows me. They won’t try and kick me out as long as I play nice.”</p><p>“They know who you are to me?”</p><p>Sam hesitates, and his silence is answer enough. That’s fair—Dean wouldn’t want to publicly associate with himself either, if he was his brother—but it stings a little. “The D.A.’s office does,” Sam offers. “It’s not that—Dean, I was really worried things might come to this. The stuff I’ve seen in Crowley’s files—the <em> stories </em>I’ve heard from the lawyers that have tried to prosecute him in the past? I knew he wasn’t going to let you go that easily.”</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Dean shakes his head and raises his hands in the air, faux nonchalant like, <em> what can you do?  </em></p><p>Running a hand through his shaggy hair, Sam sighs and plops down on the bench across from Dean, making himself comfortable. It’s strange—Dean can’t quite decide how he feels about it. Besides the fact that he’s behind bars and Sam is basically <em> protecting him </em> from <em> cops, </em> his little brother looks—well, all grown up. A suit that fits, <em> real </em>credentials clipped to his jacket pocket, an air of confidence like he’s comfortable here, like he knows what he’s doing.</p><p>“Cas called me,” Sam says, looking up at Dean with puppy dog eyes. “We’ve got a lawyer lined up for your arraignment tomorrow, a good one. I’ve seen him in court lots of times, he knows his stuff.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean snorts, moving to sit down himself and letting his head drop back against the wall. The thud he makes echoes. “He do magic? Pull rabbits out of a hat? Got himself a time machine? ‘Cause Sammy, I’ve done the math here, and I’m not sure anything less is gonna work.”</p><p>“It’ll work,” Sam says, his tone exuding a hell of a lot more confidence than the expression on his face. “It will. It’ll work.”</p><p>It doesn’t work.</p><p>After an awful night of fitful dozing with Sam doing the same just outside his cell, Dean gets unceremoniously yanked up and at ‘em just after dawn with a handful of other delinquents anxiously awaiting their fate. They’re all marched upstairs and through the courthouse halls still hazy with the pink light of the sunrise. Off to meet their maker, so to speak. Sam’s presence helps, walking quietly next to Dean the whole way. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, Sam’s got no control over this outcome, and both of them know it.</p><p>Sam also warns him ahead of time that Cas won’t be allowed inside—the courthouse isn’t even open to the public at this hour. Apparently, though, he’s out in the parking lot and has been since God knows when. Just sitting there next to his bike, waiting to find out if he can take Dean home or if he’ll be racing a transport van to the Bay.</p><p>The lawyer they managed to snag (thanks to Sam’s connections) seems alright, as far as Dean feels like he can trust <em> any </em> officer of the court. His name is Victor Hendrickson, and he’s a former detective turned prosecuting attorney turned criminal defender. When Dean spills his version of events, he listens with the best poker face Dean’s ever seen. As a result, Dean can’t quite decide whether Victor believes him or not. He <em> does </em>say, though, that Dean has a reasonably strong case, and that it will likely be enough to sow reasonable doubt with a jury.</p><p>“Reasonable doubt?” Sam interjects. “But—you’re talking about a trial! I thought—”</p><p>“Sam,” Victor replies calmly. “I know that you hoped your brother would go home today, and Dean, I’m sure there’s nothing on the planet you want more. But you both have to understand, today is not about the strength of the case being presented. The warrant will hold up—you’re going before the judge that signed it, and arguing the facts of the case during arraignment will only piss her off. Dean, you’re a recently-paroled convict accused of murdering a police officer. Boys, I could be Johnny Cochran himself and bail would <em> not </em>be on the table, do we understand each other? Best I can do is have Dean sent to the facility his husband—” </p><p>“He’s not—” Dean starts and then stops, waving at Victor to proceed while closing his tired eyes and covering them with a hand.</p><p>Sounding slightly uncertain, Victor continues. “I can have Dean held on remand there, instead of at County.” </p><p>Dean tunes everything else out. The judge basically ignores him, the proceedings are as clipped and boring as expected, and Dean gets herded through the courtroom and the entire process like he’s nothing more than cattle. Fodder for the canons, maybe. He’s not allowed to say goodbye to Sam, not granted even a second with Cas. He does catch a glimpse of that mop of familiar messy hair, sprinting full-speed across the parking lot as Dean is unceremoniously bundled from the courthouse into the painfully familiar transport van. </p><p>The back doors close before he makes it, but Dean can hear him arguing up a storm outside. It doesn’t help, and the van trundles away.</p><p>The ride, his arrival at the prison—all a blur. The salty-fresh tang of the ocean air in the loading dock is replaced swiftly with the sweaty, bleached scent of the inside of the Bay. It churns his stomach, but that’s the only thing Dean feels. The strip search, the exchanging of his street clothes (including Cas’ t-shirt) for bright orange scrubs—it should be painful, but Dean feels nothing.</p><p>His intake interview with Garth is the first time Dean allows the words, “I didn’t do it,” past his lips since he was arrested. Garth, of course, nods with sympathy that somehow doesn’t feel patronizing, but it’s not like there’s anything he can do. His fingers click rhythmically against the computer’s keyboard, entering Dean’s info for the second time. Numb, Dean stares blankly down at the picture of a white, fluffy alpaca looking curiously back at him from the cover of Garth’s abandoned magazine.</p><p>The next time Dean glances up, his eyes connect with Naomi’s through the window in the little office. He’s surprised to find that she looks upset, maybe even scared. Her arms are folded across her chest and she stomps away before Dean can really even react, leaving him unsure what to make of the interaction. Cas is nowhere to be seen, but that’s not a surprise. Dean expected as much with the fit the guy threw outside the courthouse. After all, it’s not like Cas could crown himself the welcoming committee—no wonder he wanted to steal a last second together outside the prison.</p><p>Still, Dean’s well aware that Cas made intake meetings with the prison psych standard protocol, so they’ll be seeing each other soon enough, no matter what else happens.</p><p>He already knows exactly what he’s going to say.</p><p>***</p><p>Naomi assigns him to H2, and Dean can’t decide whether he’s relieved or annoyed. True, he wouldn’t want to be locked in with any of Crowley’s past (or possibly present, considering) cronies, but he’s not the same guy his friends in H2 once knew. He’s not one of them anymore, and he’s got no desire to change that. To slip back into old habits, old ways. All Dean wants is to lay low and get the fuck out of this shithole as quickly as possible and by any means necessary.</p><p>The politics of prison, the power dynamics—Dean doesn’t want <em> any </em> part in <em> any </em>of that. Not now, not ever again.</p><p>Unfortunately for him, Benny doesn’t get that memo. </p><p>The second Garth’s back is turned and he’s put the bars of H2 behind him, Dean’s singular little cell is suddenly full to the brim. Benny stands just inside the doorway with his arms folded, Jesse and Cesar flanking him. Dean struggles not to roll his eyes at the display, continuing to pull his meager assigned belongings and toiletries from the washbasket and put them away. When that’s done, he gets to work on making his bed.</p><p>“‘Sup, fellas?” Dean finally asks, when they don’t leave.</p><p>“Welcome back, cher,” Benny replies evenly. He doesn’t move a muscle and his tone betrays nothing.</p><p>Dean sighs heavily and straightens, cracking his neck before turning to face the little group. “Really? You—what? Come to teach me a lesson? After everything we’ve been through together?” </p><p>“First rule of prison,” Benny says, sauntering forward until he’s nearly in Dean’s space. “You can’t trust nobody.” With that, he grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt and half-throws him against the cement wal. Benny steps forward quickly to hold him there, using a forearm pressed across the length of Dean’s chest. “Need to make sure we understand each other. This is my prison now, brother. Need to know if you plan on tryin’ to change that.” </p><p>“Really, like this?”</p><p>“I know it’s hard to believe, but I haven’t always been the cute and cuddly guy you used to sleep one bunk over from. Gotta protect what’s mine.”</p><p>“Fuck <em> off, </em>Benny,” Dean grouses, shoving the inmate’s hands away and just barely missing kneeing him in the groin. “I don’t give a shit about any of that Top Dog drama. You’re the man, I hear you.” Thankfully, when Dean slips away, Benny lets him go. Dean responds by offering up a super sloppy salute and forcefully declaring, “I ain’t stayin’!” </p><p>At Dean’s words, Benny’s posture relaxes a bit and his face softens. He raises his hands almost apologetically. “I ain’t got much in here,” he says, and if Dean wasn’t already resolute in the plan forming slowly but surely in his head, <em> this </em>ridiculous display of pathetic and desperate hypermasculinity would have done it. “Ain’t got much in life at all.”</p><p>Putting a hand on Benny’s shoulder, Dean looks him square in the eye and nods. He’s not here to crap on whatever little comforts the long-term inmates might have cobbled together for themselves. He’s not here to judge. “It’s cool,” he says, and means it. “I get it. Thing is, I <em> do. </em> I got—I got something, <em> someone </em>waiting for me. I’m not here to steal your thunder or challenge your title. Trust me when I say, I don’t want it.”</p><p>Dean peers around Benny to raise an eyebrow at the other two, still lingering in the doorway. “Thanks for throwing me under the bus so quick, by the way.” Jesse and Cesar have the decency to look semi-abashed, but Dean doesn’t really care what they do, and Benny laughs. </p><p>The tension in the room seems to dissipate, and Dean can’t decide whether he thinks that’s a good thing. It’s not like he’s looking to get the shit kicked out of him, but he’s not trying to get overly comfortable here, either. He glances around, and the four walls feel smaller than he remembers.</p><p><em> I’m not staying, </em> he reminds himself. <em> I’m not.  </em></p><p>Maybe if he says the words enough, he’ll start to believe it.</p><p>***</p><p>Dean doesn’t get to see Cas for almost three days. Three <em> long</em>, terrible days full of bad smells, shitty food, and anxious phonecalls to both Sam and his lawyer with exactly zero news. That, plus all the other prison minutiae Dean could have lived his entire life without ever thinking about—even in passing—again. He’d worry, maybe, but Cas is clearly <em> around. </em>There are signs of his influence everywhere, like the anti-anxiety medication orders in Dean’s chart. While not written by Cas himself, they match Dean’s current prescription and dosage, so they clearly came through on his recommendation.</p><p>Dean wonders vaguely how Cas explained that, but then decides that the prison doctor probably didn’t care enough to ask for justification. Honestly, Dean’s been trying to wean himself off of those pills, but right now? He’s not turning down any help he can get to <em> not </em>lose his damn marbles.</p><p>Especially when his access to the only person with a shot at preserving his sanity is clearly being gatekept. Dean learned <em> that </em>unfortunate news when he tried to sneak down the admin hallway, just to try and catch a glimpse of Cas in his office. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Naomi as she came careening through the secured doors like something was on fire, only to plant herself dead in the middle of the hall and glare him down.</p><p>Message received—she’s watching the cameras—Dean turned around and slunk back to H2, proverbial tail between his legs.</p><p>The major thing that TV shows and movies don’t ever properly depict about prison is how <em> boring </em> it is. A prisoner awaiting trial might feel extremely anxious, might be on edge all of the time at first, but eventually, that all fades. Mostly because it’s impossible to maintain such a heightened state of panic for weeks on end, especially in the face of such <em> dull </em>days. It’s true that Dean’s been framed, falsely accused, and now imprisoned, but justice is slow. The one sort of good thing about having been through this crap before is that Dean doesn’t expect anything to happen fast, and he’s mentally prepared for that.</p><p>Unfortunately, his former distraction strategies no longer seem to work. Exercising, reading, just standing in the sun-drenched yard and breathing the salt-sticky air—none of it makes Dean feel any freer or less trapped than he knows he is. Pressing up against the sun-baked chain fence until he can barely see the iron link pressed across his nose doesn’t trick Dean into feeling like he’s <em> actually </em>on the beach.</p><p>He’s tasted freedom, and everything else is just sour.</p><p>By the late afternoon on day three, Dean’s losing hope and starting to lose his mind. He’s <em> ridden </em>this merry-go-round, closed this chapter of the book. It’s not only freedom he’s sampled, but the life he always dreamed of having, long before he ever set foot inside the Bay. He misses his little place with Cas and sharing all the dumb, random moments together during any given day. He misses Pam and his job and the Money Pit. Hell, he even misses the stupid pig, and the way he tries to horn in on Dean’s meals before he’s even half-finished with them.</p><p>So when Donna appears by Dean’s side in the yard, gently touching his elbow to break him out of his depressed, wave-counting reverie, Dean’s desperate. The wind blows strands of Donna’s blond hair free from her ponytail as she tells Dean that <em> Dr. Novak </em> wants to see him, and just like that, he’s crashing back down to earth. It’s a done deal—it’s decided. Dean know <em> exactly </em>what their conversation is going to be about, knows what he has to do to survive this.</p><p>The only question Dean has—as he turns his back on the ocean and follows Donna inside the bleak prison complex—is whether Cas loves him enough to become a criminal, too. In truth—and considering all the lifelong implications that will come with the inevitable fallout either way—Dean’s not sure which answer to that question he really wants to hear. Yeah, Cas deserves better, but <em> he does, too. </em></p><p>The irony that Cas is the one who taught him to believe that sentiment in the first place isn’t remotely lost on Dean. </p><p>***</p><p>Since the complex is currently open for the afternoon, Donna leaves him at the mouth of the admin hallway. Probably off to do important guard stuff, like drink coffee and gossip with Garth. “You still know your way, Dean?” she asks, flashing him a kind smile as Dean nods and waves her off. He should be nicer. Grateful, or something. It’s not like there’s an excess of reasonable guards in this place, never mind ones that bother to learn first names. </p><p><em> Whatever. </em> When this mess is behind him, Dean will send her a fucking fruit basket. <em> Thanks for the common decency. Yours truly, Inmate Number 05152008. P.S. I hope I never see you again. </em></p><p>The hall seems to press in on him from all sides as Dean makes his way down it. To be fair, that’s true of everywhere in the Bay this go-round, even if the tunnel sensation here (and just coming in from the yard) makes it significantly worse. Dean swallows hard and physically shakes the sensation off—the last thing he wants is to be anything less than perfectly clear-headed for this conversation with Cas.</p><p>For Cas in general—<em>fuck, </em> Dean’s missed him. He’s spent the last three days doing almost nothing <em> but </em> miss him, seeing as how little there is to do inside the Bay at all. From the second his eyelids crack open in the morning until the depths of the night finally claim him, it’s <em> Cas </em> and <em> freedom </em> running on a loop in his mind, not necessarily in that order. Maybe a little <em> kill Crowley and make it stick this time </em>thrown in for fun and variety. </p><p>Cas’ office blinds are already drawn, so Dean steps up to his door having no idea what hornet’s next he’s walking into. For all he knows, Naomi’s on the other side of that wall, waiting to ruin their big reunion and Dean’s day in general. Dean wouldn’t put it past her—but if she thinks her presence in there is going to stop him from kissing the hell out of his man, well, he just hopes the Warden enjoys a good show as much as she likes a good, stiff drink. </p><p>Dean lifts a fist, pausing to close his eyes for a second to gather his wits, and then knocks.</p><p>“Come in.” </p><p><em> God, </em> Cas’ voice alone is a fucking balm. Dean <em> knew </em> he needed the guy, but he wasn’t entirely prepared for the epic wave of <em> relief </em> that washes over his whole body, the way his limbs tingle just knowing he’s about to <em> see </em>Castiel. </p><p>“If that ain’t love,” Dean mutters under his breath as he opens the door. </p><p>The first thing he notices is that Naomi is not waiting on the other side. It’s just Cas, standing in the middle of his office, looking lost and drowning in that <em> stupid, </em>ugly sweater. He’s fiddling with an already-frayed sleeve when Dean walks in, slamming the door behind him and closing the distance between them in a few quick strides.</p><p>“Cas,” Dean whispers, tears forming and threatening to spill over as he watches Castiel’s own gaze become watery and pleading. <em> Puppy dog eyes, </em> he thinks, wanting to tell Cas to knock it off, to buck up, that this is nothing—<em>nothing, you hear me? </em></p><p>He doesn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, Dean throws his arms around Cas’ neck and collapses into him, too exhausted to wait for permission. The cheap fabric of his scrub top pulls uncomfortably as Cas’ hands fist into the back. The push-pull tension of his shoulders betrays Cas completely—he’s angry and wanting and confused, probably more than a little unsure as to where the line is or should be right now. </p><p>“I’m so sorry.” Cas’ beautifully familiar voice breathes soft words into his ear, and Dean can barely shake his head in response, he’s so goddamn overcome. They’re just standing there, swaying, no thought of letting go or breaking apart, no matter what conflicting emotions are swirling inside.</p><p>Maybe if Dean closes his eyes—if he just <em> believes </em>hard enough—he’ll wake up and this will all be just one more shitty nightmare.</p><p>“Naomi, she—she couldn’t decide what to do. Obviously, there’s only one of me on staff, and you—” Castiel breaks off to clear his throat, noses at the space just below Dean’s ear, and clings a little tighter. “Clearly, this is unethical, but since she hasn’t <em> told </em>anyone about us, officially there’s no…uhm...reason...”</p><p>He trails off as Dean takes a deep breath, inhaling Cas’ watermelon shampoo and the spicy scent of his skin, the smell of those expensive scent-boosters he loves using to wash his clothes. </p><p>
  <em> God, Dean’s going to miss that.  </em>
</p><p>“I wanted very much to find a way to see you—but I thought it was best, safest, if—”</p><p>“You did the right thing,” Dean soothes, working his fingers into Cas’ soft hair, his scalp. The weight of him in his arms is just right. Dean knows in this moment that he’ll never, <em> ever </em> find this again. That what they have is special, important. He considers that as he thinks about what he’s about to ask, what he’s about to <em> do </em> to them—to Cas, in particular. Right now, his hands are on Cas’ waist, Cas’ badge is <em> right there, he could just—</em></p><p>The pads of his fingers skate over the sharp edge of the plastic and Dean curls them into a fist, stopping himself. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe this will be the end of them, after all—or worse, just the beginning for Cas—but Dean can’t do it. He can’t lie to the <em> one </em>person in his life who’s given him everything, expecting nothing in return. If Cas wants to go down with the ship like the Captain of the Titanic, then fuck, Dean will let him decide. He’s earned that.</p><p>“You know how bad this looks, don’t you, Cas?”</p><p>Against his shoulder, Castiel nods. “I spoke to Cain. He’s happy to—”</p><p>“No,” Dean says sharply, stiffening in Cas’ grasp. “Stop. I don’t even want to hear it. I told you—no deals. No Knights. We don’t do that anymore.” </p><p>When Cas pulls back, his brow is furrowed, worried, and Dean can’t blame him. Letting Cain wipe this problem away <em> is </em> probably the best choice all around, but Dean isn’t stupid. Cain might have helped him out in the past, but their singular meeting made one thing crystal clear—he <em> wants </em>Dean for the Knights, he just wants it to be Dean’s choice. </p><p>And Dean will never let that happen. He’s learned the hard way—these deals are never <em> just </em> for your own soul. Other people—<em>innocent people—</em>get sucked in and dragged down every goddamn time and intentions are just something for an apology card with a Hallmark stamp on the back.</p><p>
  <em> Might as well let the worst happen on your own terms, of your own free will—and everyone else’s, too. </em>
</p><p>Castiel opens his mouth to protest and Dean cuts him off with a kiss. It’s a cheap shot—cheating, really. It’s not a fair move any way you cut it, but Dean is long past caring about level playing fields. The whimper Cas makes against his mouth almost does him in, but somehow, Dean hangs on. After all, who knows when they’re going to have another chance to do this again? <em> If ever?  </em></p><p>Dean intends to enjoy it.</p><p>He cups Cas’ cheek, kisses him slow and lingering, does his best to memorize every single thing about the moment. The soft feel of Cas’ lips, his taste on Dean’s tongue. The curves of his body slipping under Dean’s hands, the burn of his unshaved stubble—<em>all of it.  </em></p><p>When he pulls back, Dean finds himself emotional all over again and struggling to push it down. Licking his lips, he regretfully drops his hand from Cas’ face and takes a deep breath. “There’s another way,” he says, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “How much time to do we have?”</p><p>Cas blinks a little, clearly trying to center himself and force his brain back on the all-business track before glancing up at the clock. “This meeting is on the record as an intake appointment. It takes as long as it takes.”</p><p>“Good,” Dean replies, taking his hand and leading Cas to the couch. They sit down side-by-side—thighs touching—for the first time. There’s probably something to that, some metaphor or whatever, if Dean had the time or the energy to look at it a little more closely. As it is, he’s got other things on his mind. He does keep Cas’ hand clasped tight in his own, though, unable to let go just yet, knowing what’s coming.</p><p>“I’ll explain, if you’re willing to hear me out,” Dean says seriously. Naturally, Cas—as always—nods his willingness like it’s <em> nothing, </em>like it’s not the greatest gift Dean’s ever received, offered up in perpetuity. </p><p>He pauses before dropping the bomb, long enough to lean in and peck Cas’ lips one more time, just in case. “I love you,” he says, which makes Cas crack a smile, even if it’s a small one. “Love you so much, sunshine.”</p><p>“Get on with it, Dean,” Cas says gently, but his eyebrows are raised with intention.</p><p>“Yeah,” he agrees, looking away for a second before taking a last deep breath and blowing it out. “Alright. Here it is: I can prove that I’m innocent, Cas. I just can’t do it locked in here. I know that this is a big ask. The biggest. I know that I have no right to put you in the middle of my shit. But I’m desperate, baby, and what I need—the <em> only </em>way I’m ever gonna have a shot at freedom—is for you to help me break out of the Bay. Now. Tonight.” </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Next time: Jailbreak, and everyone’s invited! Cas tests Naomi’s not actually endless patience, Dean sets off some alarms. Chekov’s gun.</p><p>Need more Break on Through before next week? Lucky for you, there's a <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0nxSFcS0YoJE59txh1Wi2B?si=ae7dffaf6f68480fhttps://open.spotify.com/playlist/0nxSFcS0YoJE59txh1Wi2B?si=ae7dffaf6f68480f">Spotify Playlist!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Perhaps they’d forgo all of that completely and elope straight to Zihuatanejo, rent some rundown shack by the beach without A.C. and with questionable running water. They could start a little themed tiki bar together—buy three margaritas, get a fifteen minute therapy session for free. Castiel doesn’t hate the ludicrous thought even half as much as he should, and <i>what the fuck is wrong with him?</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WHEW!! We're really cooking with grease now! :-P I uploaded this chapter somewhere on Route 95 between Virginia and North Carolina, that's how committed I am, lmao.</p><p>Warnings: almost nothing this week, let me know if I missed something!<br/>—&gt; Manipulation using alcohol: Cas tries to get Naomi drunk to steal from her.<br/>—&gt; Cops that are jerks and use mildly homophobic language</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The more Dean talks, the more Castiel starts to lose feeling in his arms and legs. This is really it—they’re standing at the edge of a cliff and Dean’s asking him to jump. There won’t be any “going back” after they do this—it’s not a secret relationship of questionable ethics, this is a <em> prison break. </em> Dean will be a fugitive and Castiel will be a felon accomplice at worst, a suspicious <em> persona non grata </em> in this town and inside the Bay at <em> best</em>.</p><p>It’s not like he and Dean can just...pick up and settle in some border town, Dean with a giant beard and a new identity, something unassuming and generic like <em> Michael Shield. </em>As Dean talks, Castiel tries to imagine it—him working for whatever shithole prison will have him by day and coming home to his off-the-grid, aimless, drifter-looking boyfriend by night. The Money Pit would be years in their rearview mirror and only motel rooms half as nice as they one they’re currently occupying would loom in their future. </p><p>Perhaps they’d forgo all of that completely and elope straight to Zihuatanejo, rent some rundown shack by the beach without A.C. and with questionable running water. They could start a little themed tiki bar together—buy three margaritas, get a fifteen-minute therapy session for free. Castiel doesn’t hate the ludicrous thought even half as much as he should, and <em> what the fuck is wrong with him?  </em></p><p>He takes a deep breath and nods slightly, trying to appear as if he’s listening and not running worst-case scenarios through his head, but really, whatever Dean is saying hardly matters. Castiel already knows the outcome of this conversation. Worse, he’s not even a<em> little </em> sorry about it. After all, as goes Dean, so goes Castiel’s nation. Healthy? Perhaps not. Worth it? <em> Unquestionably. </em></p><p>Still—</p><p>“But Dean,” he chimes in, cutting Dean off at the pass and holding up a placating hand. “Pause. And do not mistake my question for hesitation or doubt in <em> you</em>. I’m simply asking—as I can understand how stressful this whole event has been and how understandable it would be for you to make rash decisions—<em>why? </em> You <em> are </em>innocent, you have an excellent lawyer, and the case against you—”</p><p>“The case against me has motive, DNA, a murder weapon, <em> witnesses</em>, and a bunch of <em> really </em> fucking determined cops who want to see me burn, Cas,” Dean retorts, propping his elbow on the back of the couch and resting his head on his hand. “It has a psychopath who organized the whole damn thing <em> from inside solitary, </em> and who is about to walk free. You know how his appeal went, the judge should have a decision any day now. You tell me, Cas, which way do you think our luck is swinging on that?”</p><p>Admittedly, Dean has more than one solid point there. </p><p>“Cas, if he can do this from <em> inside </em>prison, imagine the havoc he’s gonna wreak when he’s out. I’m fucked already, my life is over if I leave it to the courts. This whole joke of a trial has been bought and sold; signed, sealed, and delivered before me and Cole ever even talked that day at the bar.”</p><p>Dean chews his lip and then leans forward with intent. “I’ve got one card left to play, and that’s getting to Crowley’s records before the rigged system sets him free. I told you—Crowley keeps records of <em> everything. </em> There’s a contract for each and every godforsaken deal he’s ever made, somewhere out there. If I can just find his stash, I can prove he set all this up. I can <em> prove </em>he hired Cole and then contracted whoever bumped Cole off. Hell, I can prove his ties to Alastair and Meg, the way he was flowing drugs into the prison, you name it! I’ll get the proof, then I’ll turn myself in. Maybe I face an escape charge, but Victor can argue that I was wrongly imprisoned in the first place, make it a wash.”</p><p>“I’m not sure that’s how that works,” Castiel replies, reluctantly, and Dean drops his head with a silent nod. </p><p>“Yeah, no, I—I know that, Cas. But the thing is, I know some other stuff about it, too. Back—before, before you ever came here—I used to think I was gonna be all on my own, when my trial rolled around. My grand plan was to fire that asshole Roman in court and to try and defend myself. I’d uh, hole up in the library and read all the shit they had on law stuff that applied to my case. Sorta became clear pretty quick that I was fucked as far as the original case went, but…”</p><p>Dean pauses to lick his lips and Castiel notes the way his eyes stay downcast, focused on the couch and the loose thread in the cushion that he’s picking at. “I found something else. You know that this place was never meant to house people like me, people like Crowley and his gang—hell, even Benny. I don’t think they worried about, you know, C-suite types trying to jump the fence or tunnel their way out. So, there’s this book in the library. It’s about the history of the Bay.”</p><p>“Oh?” Castiel says, perking up just to show Dean that he’s listening, though he’s not yet seeing the relevance.  </p><p>Dean peers up through his lashes and nods. “The location, the town’s reaction...the construction of the campus.” He raises his eyebrows, and Castiel starts to connect the dots on where this is headed. He makes a mental note to do his own sweep of the library down the road, providing he’s still here to do it. “The building process, including plans...<em> blueprints, </em> laid out in black and white, right there on the page<em>. </em> At first, I thought—no way. But I did a little poking around from what I could see with my own two eyes, and I gotta admit, things do seem to line up.”</p><p>Castiel’s mouth opens a little, though he has no idea what he might say, but Dean rushes to continue anyway.</p><p>“So I kept looking at the law books, but I focused on a different topic...escape. Pretty much discovered that the worst sentence is ten years, but if you can plead it down to a misdemeanor, there’s no mandated time at all. Back then, all I could see was the nightmare in front of me—a shot at freedom was <em> well </em> worth a couple more years on an irrelevant sentence when I already saw myself dying here.” Dean pauses to cough, and Castiel reflexively picks up his coffee mug off of the table to wordlessly hand it over.</p><p>“Thanks. It’s just, <em> now </em> I can’t stop thinking—circumstances considered—ain’t I looking at life anyway? If I <em> don’t </em> do something? Hell, even if I get ten years when all is said and done, that’s a <em> light, </em> it’s <em> something. </em>Cas, I gotta try.” </p><p>The expression on Dean’s face, the desperation and pleading in his eyes is convincing enough, though so was Dean simply asking. It’s not like Castiel ever considered leaving him alone in this. He takes the mug back from Dean’s hands and allows himself a long sip of the cold coffee before meeting Dean’s gaze and saying, “Well. What did you have in mind?”</p><p>A truly brilliant smile spreads across Dean’s beautiful face, and Castiel already knows that he won’t allow Dean to languish here for ten years. If all else fails, if it <em> comes </em> to that, Dean won’t be returning to the Bay at all. Castiel doesn’t <em> need </em> to ask Dean what he plans to do if his mission fails, if he <em> can’t </em>find the proof that he needs—because he has the same plan.</p><p>If it comes to that, Castiel will take his hand and they’ll both run, never once looking back. </p><p>But Dean deserves a better life than that. He deserves the one they fought for and worked so damn hard to create together. He deserves his job and his friends and his pet and his family, deserves Mia and the house he built with his own two hands. Much as Castiel might be loathe to admit it, he has found himself just as concerned about the court system’s ability to deliver that kind of justice, especially with everything working against them. If Dean won’t accept Cain’s help, then truthfully, this plan—crazy as it is—may be their only shot.</p><p>“Alright,” Dean says, clapping his hands before rubbing them together. “Details. When I thought about breaking out before, I figured the best way to do it would be through the crawlspace above the main floor. This one.” Dean tips his head up so that Castiel turns his attention to the drop ceiling, the same kind that’s present over all of the offices in the secure admin hall and the unsecured administration suites. </p><p>“It’s all connected?”</p><p>Nodding, Dean points a finger from one end of the room to the other. “It’s dangerously simple, Cas. All I gotta do is get up there, stay on top of the joists, and follow the ventilation ducting. I know the prison layout well enough, I just gotta find the alcove where the guards do the out-processing for a release. Once I’m out, the treeline is right fucking there—it’ll be so easy.”<br/><br/>“The guardhouse isn’t even manned after six,” Castiel says slowly. </p><p>“Now you’re getting it,” Dean says, grinning. “We just hang out here in your office until shift change ends and the parking lot is deserted. It’s almost <em> too </em>easy.”</p><p>“We use a code to exit through the gate—I’ll be waiting outside by the release door to badge you through—I can leave the bike running.” </p><p>Dean’s face softens and he leans forward to kiss Castiel again, somewhat unexpectedly. “I don’t expect you to help,” he says softly, after pulling away. “You don’t gotta be my getaway car or whatever. I was thinking maybe Pam or someone could drive Baby down and just leave her on the street? I can take it from there. Hell, you could even say I stole your badge and knocked you out, if you wanted.”</p><p>Frowning, Castiel reaches up to touch his face, stubble rough under his fingertips. “You want to do this alone?”</p><p>“I’m ready to,” Dean hedges. “I’ve always—”</p><p>“No,” Castiel says. “I can’t—” He pauses and thinks for a moment. “I’ll go with you,” he lands on. It’s the second time he’s said those words to Dean in this very office, and it feels right, even more so now. </p><p>“You don’t—”</p><p>“I said,” Castiel repeats, more firmly this time, “I’ll go with you.” </p><p>Dean just cups Castiel’s cheek with his hand, his face saying more than words ever could. Castiel’s about to dig into more minutiae regarding the plan when he remembers something—something important. “Dean,” he says, grabbing Dean’s hand and tugging it off of his face to lace their fingers together. “You said that you’ll be attempting to find Crowley’s records. Where, exactly, do you intend to look?”</p><p>“Well, his apartment, for starters. Crowley keeps a penthouse downtown, was a real hub back when I worked for him on the outside. Place has security but there’s easy access if you know what you’re doing. The freight elevator override codes never change, and if they have, I’ve got my ways. I sincerely doubt he gave the place up coming here—Crowley’s rich enough and he loved that apartment. Like, <em> loved. </em> I’m sure it’s just sitting there empty, waiting for him.”</p><p>“I don’t know, Dean. Did you <em> see </em>evidence of his record-keeping there? His official residence would have already been searched by the police. If something was to be found, you’d think they would have?”</p><p>Dean holds up a finger. “<em>Or </em> it was only ‘searched’ back when Crowley had his sticky fingers all over that department,” Dean suggests, unbothered. “I saw contracts here and there, but not like, filing cabinets, if that’s what you mean. Place had a hundred and one rooms <em> plus </em>a study that no one was ever allowed inside. Shit could be anywhere.” </p><p>A lightbulb goes off in Castiel’s head. “Filing cabinets,” he murmurs, “Just a moment.” Releasing Dean’s hand, Castiel hops up and moves over to his desk, opening his laptop and navigating swiftly to the prison’s internal database. Pulling up Crowley’s digital file, Castiel clicks through to his intake info and more specifically, his personal effects list. He ignores Dean trailing behind and subsequently hovering over him.</p><p>“What the hell, Cas?”</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says, ignoring his snark. “Look.” </p><p>Peering over his shoulder, Dean’s eyes follow to where Castiel’s finger is pointing to the screen. “A keyring,” he says, surprised. He blinks before looking down at Castiel in his chair. “You think…? Could be important.”</p><p>“Your guess is as good as mine,” Castiel says. “If there <em> is </em> proof of the kind you’re looking for, it seems likely that Crowley would keep the keys to such a thing as hidden and safe as possible. It’s not surprising they’d be on his person. However—I can’t just wander down to storage and leave you here in my office. I’d also have to take my badge for access, so you’ll have no way to get out if something goes wrong. If I <em> did </em>leave you here, it’s likely they’d discover you missing fairly quickly, as it will be obvious that I never returned you back to H2. It’s nearly lockdown.” </p><p>“Alright, take me to H2, get the thing, and then escort me back here,” Dean suggests.</p><p>Castiel narrows his eyes. “That would be <em> incredibly </em>suspicious. Naomi is already waiting for me to debrief her on our meeting. She’s giving us grace, but if I end and then restart it—” Castiel breaks off and shakes his head. “That scenario seems more likely to end in me being fired and you being sent to AdSeg. Perhaps the keyring isn’t worth it.”</p><p>Dean slumps against the side of Castiel’s desk, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Thing is, I’ve always suspected that fucker had a—a storage locker or some shit. Some place where he could hoard all those records of his dirty deeds. If there’s a key on that ring, that could give us a clue—Cas, that could be the lead we need.” They’re both quiet for a moment, wracking their brains for an alternate plan, one that won’t end Dean’s bid for freedom before it even begins.</p><p>“There is...one other option,” Castiel begins, hesitantly meeting Dean’s eyes. </p><p>He explains his roughly cobbled-together plan while Dean listens and nods, stopping only to humor Dean when he interjects to ask (again) if this is <em> really </em>something Castiel wants to do. <em> Of course it is, </em>he says, and that is that. This plan is slightly more complicated and has quite a bit larger margin for error than the first, but Dean feels strongly about getting Crowley’s keys, and Castiel just wants to be useful to him. </p><p>The biggest difference in this plan is that it requires them to separate. Dean will go back to H2 and participate in lockdown and first checks, Castiel’s badge wrapped up safely in his pocket. The guards conduct shift change immediately following those checks, which leaves the H-block and admin hallways empty for at least fifteen minutes. At that time, Dean will badge himself out of H2, and sneak back down to Castiel’s office. </p><p>This is the most risky part, as Dean will have to contend with the other members of his housing unit—either electing to let them in on his plan, or hope that no one feels like hanging out in the common area. In Castiel’s opinion, if this plan is going to go wrong, that is where it will happen.</p><p>Presuming that Dean can make it to Castiel’s office, he’ll then change into the plain clothes outfit Castiel leaves on the couch for him before climbing up into the ceiling via Castiel’s desk and a chair. Once there, he’ll crawl his way to the out-processing alcove, jump down, and badge himself out. The plan diverges again here, as both Dean and Castiel feel it’s risky to have Dean lurking in the parking lot, waiting for Castiel. Even in plain clothes, any guard would certainly recognize him. </p><p>They solve this issue by bringing <em> more </em> innocent people into the fold, though when Castiel dials Pam’s number, he doesn’t <em> exactly </em>explain what she’s aiding and abetting. Instead, he just asks if she’ll drive Baby down from where the car is still parked in front of the bar, offering some lame cover story about a hopeful bail opportunity and wanting Dean’s car to be nearby when that happens.</p><p>Fortunately, Pam being easygoing as she is, there aren’t any difficult questions asked. Although, she <em> does </em>make Castiel promise to take her out on a bike ride sometime as a ‘thank you’, which he’s happy to do, Pam’s grabby hands aside. Quite relieved with those terms, Castiel agrees and instructs her to park the Impala next to the curb in front of the singular house on the street.</p><p>What he doesn’t add but <em> does </em> tell Dean is that the house belongs to Naomi—well, to the Bay and whoever is the current Warden—which makes it perfect cover in case a search effort is launched and Dean has to hide momentarily before making it to the car. Who would ever think a getaway car would be parked in front of the <em> Warden’s </em>house? Plus, Castiel knows his boss’ plans for the day—Naomi won’t be going home anytime soon, and certainly not once a prisoner turns up missing.</p><p>Plan B in motion, all that’s left is to carry it out. If all goes as planned, Dean will meet Castiel on the far outskirts of town, and they’ll head into the city together. The Bay has never had an escaped inmate, and the local force is small and pathetic—it will take them quite a while to organize a proper search. Worst case scenario, Dean heads off ahead of him and Castiel follows later. Dean has his burner phone from Sam in the car, so once they’re reunited, contact shouldn’t be an issue.</p><p>All the same, Dean insists on writing the phone number onto a slip of paper and tucking it into Castiel’s pocket for safekeeping. “Just in case,” he whispers, standing <em> way </em>too close and holding tight to Castiel’s hip. “Can’t lose you.” </p><p>Castiel swallows heavily, carding the fingers of both of his hands through Dean’s soft hair—slightly sticky from the cheap prison shampoo—as they stand in the middle of his office and prepare to go to work. “We can still call this off,” he says, not entirely sure which answer he wants to hear, but Dean just shakes his head sadly.</p><p>“I really can’t, sunshine. <em> You </em>can, and I wouldn’t blame you, could never hold it against you. But I’ve gotta go, baby.” </p><p>Throwing his arms around Dean’s shoulders, Castiel squeezes and nods. “I know,” he says. “And if you have to go, I have to go with you.”</p><p>“I don’t like it," Dean says, shaking his head against Castiel’s cheek. “Hate putting you in danger, hate dragging you down into this mess with me at all. I do, I hate it, but at the same time—you’re my man. And if you wanna help, then I—I want you there.”  </p><p>“I want to help,” Castiel says firmly, soothing a hand down Dean's back. "My love for you is endless. This is simply a drop in the ocean."</p><p>“Are you ready?” Dean asks, even though his arms only tighten around Castiel’s waist, keeping them together. The movement prompts a shiver as Dean’s fingertips drift beneath his layers to brush against Castiel’s skin. “I’m ready when you are.”</p><p>“I’m ready.”</p><p>***</p><p>Castiel locks Dean inside the closed iron bars of H2 with a last knowing, charged glance exchanged between them. It’s quiet on the block—no other inmates to be seen, and Castiel wishes he had some wood to knock on that it would stay that way—for Dean’s sake. He heads off, leaving Dean behind and walking briskly down the admin hall. He waves at Tessa through the window in the closed infirmary door where she’s hunkering down to catch up on charting.</p><p><em> Everything </em>is quiet—it’s almost too good to be true.</p><p>At the far end of the hall—past his office—Castiel presses the call button on the access pad he’d usually badge his way through. The buzzer sounds and a guard appears, prompting Castiel to put on his best expression of faux frustration while he complains that he left his ID in Naomi’s office. </p><p>“I know the feeling,” Uriel chuckles, holding the door open rather genially. “Fucking sucks when you forget it and get yourself stuck somewhere. Happens to all of us at some point.” </p><p>Castiel touches fingers to his head like, <em> where is my mind? </em> and sincerely thanks Uriel as he graciously escorts Castiel through the rest of the locked doors. Easy, <em> easy as anything</em>, he’s in the unsecured admin hallway and about to dive headlong into the most dangerous part of his own mission: stealing Naomi’s badge.</p><p>For a brief, <em> brief </em> moment, Castiel flirts with the idea of simply being honest with his friend. After all, it’s quite literally the <em> only </em> thing Naomi’s asked of him, which is essentially a miracle when you consider everything that Castiel has put her through. When you contemplate the disrespect he’s shown and the <em> stress </em> he’s heaped upon her shoulders, the way he’s put <em> her </em>reputation and the prison itself at risk for his own selfish desires (not that he has any regrets)—how can he ask for more? </p><p>Ultimately, those thoughts are the same ones that lead him back to the original plan. He <em> can’t </em>ask Naomi for more than she’s already given. It’s one thing for Castiel to fling himself willingly and without regrets over the edge of Dean’s cliff, but Naomi doesn’t hold the same emotional stake in any way, shape, or form, nor is her temperament remotely suited to life on the run.</p><p>Not for nothing, but Castiel can’t imagine her being remotely as pleased as he is at the idea of running off to Mexico and operating a beach bar. Actually, he can’t imagine her in a bikini at all, nor can he envision the Warden third-wheeling with him and Dean, serving drinks to drunken tourists with a grimace more than a smile. At least, not without murdering multiple people on any given day for the crime of simply existing. </p><p>Crime leads to more crime, and all that.</p><p>Standing outside Naomi’s door, Castiel’s fingers brush over the fabric of his pocket where Dean’s phone number is tucked within. The tiny reminder of what’s at stake—of <em> who </em>he’s doing this for—grounds Castiel and urges him on. The guilt over what he’s about to do to Naomi—what he’s about to throw away, regardless of how Dean’s plan shakes out—still weighs heavily on him, though. All he can do is promise himself that when all of this is over, he’ll find a way to make it up to Naomi. Somehow.</p><p>He knocks.</p><p>“Enter,” Naomi’s stern voice calls out.</p><p>Castiel takes a deep breath and blows it away before donning his best, most exhausted face and throwing the door wide. Naomi’s head snaps up in surprise, but her expression turns sympathetic when she sees him. Castiel hates himself a little already. “Alcohol, please,” he says, not waiting for a response before striding over to Naomi’s little whiskey cart. </p><p>“That bad?”</p><p>“Have you ever done an intake assessment on the love of your life, who is currently being framed for murder and unfairly incarcerated at the institution in which you work?” Castiel keeps his back turned while he talks, blocking the way he fills one tumblr with whiskey and a few drops of water, the other with an opposite ratio of ingredients. His tolerance is excellent, but he needs to stay as sharp as humanly possible. </p><p>“Can’t say that I have,” Naomi replies mildly, but her tone is laced with concern. Castiel hands her the ultra-potent drink and keeps a hand wrapped around his own to mask the lighter color, not that he thinks Naomi will look that closely. He hasn’t exactly been the picture of stability this past week—it’s very much in character that he’d want to drown his sorrows tonight. </p><p>Castiel takes a long sip and Naomi does the same. He sighs and sits back in his chair. “This is a nightmare, Naomi.”</p><p>She runs a finger around the rim of her glass before taking another long drink. “I know,” she replies, finally. “For whatever it’s worth, I believe Dean’s version of events. I’m sorry that I haven’t said so before now, but I’ve been doing my own investigation into things. You and I know better than anyone what Crowley is capable of, and how vengeful he can be. In truth, I can’t help but feel semi-responsible—however he accomplished this, a failure on the institution’s end allowed it to happen.” She takes another sip and shakes her head. “I’m sorry for that, Castiel.” </p><p>Nodding and smiling sadly, Castiel takes a token sip as well. “I wish that changed anything.”</p><p>Naomi leans back in her chair and appears contemplative. “As do I. Now—tell me about your meeting with Dean. How is he adjusting? And what is the plan from here, as far as your future interactions with him? I’m not naive enough to think that I can ask you to suspend your relationship completely, but I need you to define the boundaries that you intend to follow very clearly for me.” </p><p>Over the next half hour, Castiel and Naomi talk, their discussion following the usual pattern—business and then pleasure. The first is mainly Castiel bluffing a series of sincere-sounding rules for self-governing his relationship with Dean, since he’s given the matter exactly zero thought after Dean dropped his bomb. The latter is Naomi’s attempt to get his mind off of things—she’s three glasses of whiskey in and chattering away about the hot date she has this weekend, someone that apparently would “blow Castiel away” if he knew. Apparently not her usual type.</p><p>Normally, he’d be all over that—Naomi’s entirely picky about dating prospects, and for her to be seeing someone more than once is fairly unusual. Most of her dates bolt after learning what she does for a living, and Castiel also suspects, meeting her. He loves Naomi, but she’s unquestionably an acquired taste.</p><p>Today, he can’t focus on the trivial back and forth to save his life. He does his best to nod and laugh in the right places, to ask the right questions when she pauses, but he’s really only focusing on two things. One: Naomi’s level of drunkenness, and two: the location of her badge. </p><p>Naomi keeps her badge clipped to either the breast pocket of her jacket or the lapel. Castiel knows this, knows <em> her</em>. The reason why this plan is going to work is that Naomi’s office is in the unsecured area of the Bay—she doesn’t <em> need </em>her badge to exit the prison. If Castiel can get her drunk enough, she’ll eventually become overheated and take off her jacket. If tradition holds, that’s about the same time of night when she’ll bid him adieu and stumble outside to walk home. </p><p>The only hitch in this plan is Baby, but hopefully Dean will have retrieved her by the time Naomi leaves. If not, Naomi knows Dean’s car and she’ll probably think Castiel left it there with intentions of drunkenly sleeping in his office and not wishing for the staff to know. The worst he’ll likely get is a complaint that he didn’t come home <em> with </em>her to watch Netflix and continue drinking.</p><p>If he can just get ahold of her badge before then, she’ll likely think she knocked it off and left it in her office. Sober Naomi would go back for it, but drunken Naomi? Will not pass go or collect two hundred dollars: she’ll march straight home to bed and worry about the rest in the morning. It’s not as if the Warden won’t be able to get back inside her own prison without a badge. At <em> worst, </em>she’ll ask Castiel to run over so that they can walk in together.</p><p>At least, that’s what he <em> hopes </em> her train of thought will be. He’s pretty much banking on it, since he’s seen her do exactly the same thing more than once. It’s also the same reason he has <em> any </em>hope of getting away with stealing her badge at all—he can return it when he’s done and walk out of the prison scot-free, no one the wiser.</p><p>True to form, around the end of glass three, Naomi shrugs her jacket and throws it across her desk at Castiel, ordering him to hang it up. Her cheeks are flushed and she fans herself with her hand, that happy-content smile she gets when she’s on the wrong side of tipsy finding its way onto her face. </p><p>Castiel obliges, of course, and it’s all too easy to palm her ID’s clip free and slip it into his pocket before hanging the jacket up. Just to be sure she doesn’t notice, Castiel refills her glass one last time, pretending to do the same for his own. He’s fairly certain she hasn’t noticed that he’s imbibed far less, even the watered-down version. If she has, she hasn’t mentioned it—and Naomi <em> always </em>mentions it. </p><p>By the time he returns to his seat, Naomi’s swiping somewhat blindly at her phone, grumbling about autocorrect. Vaguely, he wonders if Dean has made it outside yet. No alarms have sounded, no radio transmissions about an unaccounted for prisoner have been heard, which is positive—Castiel just hopes Pam came through on her end. The faster Dean can put distance between himself and the Bay, the better.</p><p><em> Finally, </em>Naomi yawns and excuses herself, and Castiel has to take a breath and force himself not to look overly eager to get away. After all, he’s supposed to be heartbroken and lonely, desperate for company and distraction. He’s actually sort of surprised Naomi hasn’t suggested moving the party to her place and turning it into an impromptu sleepover—thank God for small miracles. </p><p>They hug goodnight, and if Castiel hangs on a little longer than usual, well, he can’t think too much about that right now. “Thank you, my friend,” he tells her, and means every word more than he can say. As he closes her office door behind him, Castiel truly hopes that won’t be the last drink he shares with Naomi. That she’ll still <em> be </em>his friend in the future. Only time will tell.</p><p>From there, he sets off, back into the depths of the prison. Retrieving an inmate’s personal belongings is as simple as badging himself back into the secured area and taking the stairs down to the basement. The halls are still quiet—guards wandering, yawning, and zero sign of Dean or anything gone awry. All the same, the hair on Castiel’s neck prickles—they have to be approaching second checks, at which point it’s more likely than not that Dean’s absence (assuming he was able to get out) will be discovered.</p><p>The stairwell and the basement hallways are completely deserted. There isn’t much down here—the laundry, the boiler room, the security station that contains all the CCTV equipment, and virtually nothing else. It’s kind of strange, actually. This is where Castiel first saw Dean, and tonight, it’s where their story at the Bay comes to an end.</p><p><em> God, </em>if he only knew then what he knows now.</p><p>Castiel shakes that train of thought off and continues down the hall towards the only other real area of interest down here: secured storage. The door is discretely marked and opens easily with a quiet beep when Castiel touches Naomi’s badge to the pad. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding—there’s no reason why Naomi’s badge wouldn’t work, but apparently, his brain is beyond logic at this point.</p><p>As he pockets the badge again, the little slip of paper with Dean’s phone number nearly flutters out onto the floor, so Castiel slips it inside the plastic sleeve for safekeeping. </p><p>The door creaks open, making Castiel cringe and glance around like he’s about to be caught and hauled off to jail—the irony. <em> Technically </em>he hasn’t done anything wrong—yet—if you exclude stealing the Warden’s ID. Even still, his own badge opens this particular door, so…</p><p>
  <em> Focus, Castiel. </em>
</p><p>Quietly, Castiel closes the door behind him, leaving it shut but unlatched, just in case. He flips on the lights and glances around. The room is enormous. It’s three times as long as it is wide and includes rows upon rows of filing cabinets in the back half. Those cabinets contain both prisoner and staff files alike, anything that has to be kept for HR and regulation reasons, or that Naomi simply finds interesting. </p><p>Closer to Castiel are multiple metal shelving racks full of large, clear storage bins. They contain all of the prisoner items confiscated upon intake, to be returned upon release. They’re bagged, tagged, and alphabetized, which makes Castiel’s work easy enough. He wanders through the stacks, fingers dragging against the sides of various bins until he finds the “C” section, opening the first bin and striking out but hitting paydirt on the second. </p><p>“CROWLEY, FERGUS.” Stark black lettering on the top bag’s matte-white label proclaims its owner. The label is meant to seal the contents, to be broken upon the inmate’s discharge, but it’s only a sticker. Castiel peels it back easily before opening the zipper lock on the bag and rummaging through the stuff inside. Even though he’s seen the contents list, Castiel finds himself somewhat disappointed that it’s all fairly useless and mundane.</p><p>“Who wears a designer suit to prison?” he finds himself muttering, shoving the bulky pieces aside to get to the loose items buried beneath. There’s a wallet, which Castiel opens and rifles through, just to be sure there’s nothing helpful. A license, but Dean said that he knew where Crowley lived. Credit cards, cash. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. </p><p>Castiel drops it and fishes around for what he came here for instead. He frowns, grumbles a little, and starts to worry when his hand doesn’t locate anything. Right as he’s about to shake the whole bag loose onto the floor, <em> boom, </em>there it is—cold metal brushing against his skin. Castiel’s fingers close around the key ring immediately, yanking it out. He holds his find up to the light—yes, definitely a key ring. </p><p>Pleased with himself and his first successful burgling, Castiel shoves everything back into the bag and seals it up again. By the time Crowley realizes the keys are missing, that’ll be the least of <em> anyone’s </em>problems in this situation. Either he and Dean will have accomplished their mission, or they won’t, and nothing will matter. </p><p>Shoving <em> that </em>intrusive thought aside (again), Castiel slips the plastic belongings bag back into its assigned box and replaces the lid. He’s careful to ensure it’s all exactly as he found it, nothing askew, no reason for anyone to question. As far as his eye can tell, it looks perfect.</p><p>Satisfied, Castiel pulls out Naomi’s badge for easy access on the way back up, moving to slip the key ring into its former place as he turns around. He’s distracted, high on his perceived “win,” and nearly has a heart attack when the movement sends him running headlong into Naomi herself. Literally, he smacks right into her, surprisingly sturdy and unwavering for someone who was <em> fully </em>in the bag not twenty minutes prior. </p><p>From the look on her face, she already knows what he’s been up to, and she’s not nearly as drunk as Castiel thought. Naomi narrows her eyes and folds her arms across her chest.</p><p>In response, Castiel opens his mouth to speak—not that he knows what the hell he’s going to say—but he’s preempted by the Bay’s warning sirens activating and the emergency lights throwing alternating red and white streaks across the room. Both his and Naomi’s radios shoot static while the P.A. crackles to life above their heads, and Castiel’s heart stutters in his chest.</p><p><em> This is it. </em>All he can do now is hope that Dean got out, found Baby, and is on his way to the city, because there’s no going back now.</p><p>
  <em> “Attention Compound, this is a Code Gray. All officers are to follow lockdown procedure and report to elopement posts. Repeat: This is a Code Gray. All officers are to follow lockdown procedure and report to elopement posts.”  </em>
</p><p>The phone clipped to Naomi’s hip begins ringing. Huffing her exasperation, she rips it off and swipes the screen open before lifting it to her ear. “Tapping. Yes.” She listens for a moment, her eyes darting to Castiel briefly before moving Heavenward. That’s not a great sign.</p><p><em> Bang. Bang. Bang. </em>Castiel’s heart has decided to forgo the anxious fluttering and move straight to attempting its own prison break from his chest. He swallows hard and tries to shake off the wave of dizziness and fear threatening to paralyze him. He’s smarter, braver than that—emotions are for later.</p><p>Naomi hangs up her phone with a put-upon sigh, weirdly appearing more annoyed than angry. “I should dismember you where you stand and bury your body parts at sea, Castiel,” she says, and <em> whoops, guess she is angry, after all. </em>Naomi scowls. “I believe I asked only one thing of you. I assume the lame attempt to get me drunk and steal my ID is because Winchester has yours?”</p><p>“Naomi,” Castiel starts. “I’m so—I couldn’t ask, I couldn’t ask for you to cover up something else. Something <em> this </em>big. I wouldn’t blame you for not believing me, but as much as I’d do anything for Dean, keeping you out of the loop was the only thing I could do to protect you, too.”</p><p>The stony expression on Naomi’s face softens minutely, such a minor change that only someone who knows her as well as Castiel could see it. She’s quiet for a moment, the prison still erupting in noise and lights around and above them, Naomi acting like they have all the time in the world. </p><p>Finally, she lifts her head and nods. “You understand what you’re giving up here? Your job, your career? The prison records which badge opens which door, you know. They have Dean Winchester exiting the prison on security cameras after swiping your ID card. The police are already on their way, they’ll want to speak to you. I assume you have a cover story?”</p><p>Castiel shrugs and waves Naomi’s ID, held between two of his fingers. “I can’t imagine it will hold up once you tell them about this...event.”</p><p>Naomi studies him for a moment and then holds her hand out, Castiel dropping the badge into it without a second thought. “I suppose not,” she says mildly. Her gaze flickers to Castiel’s pocket as he drops the keys into it, challenging Naomi with his eyes right back. She doesn’t ask him to turn them over. Perhaps she doesn’t know they’re what he stole.</p><p>“Naomi, Dean <em> is </em> innocent. Short of doing something so crazy and drastic, he’ll <em> die </em> here, framed for a crime he didn’t commit. I know that you can’t allow yourself to make every story in this place personal, but this one <em> is, </em> whether you recognize it or not<em>. </em> You’ve been in the trenches with Dean. You’ve <em> seen </em> how hard he had to fight to be free. You <em> know </em>what Crowley is capable of doing in the name of petty revenge.” </p><p>As usual, Naomi’s face gives next to nothing away. She flicks the badge between her fingers and hums. “Dean made it through the gate,” she offers. “It seems he escaped through after an employee opened it to leave. I can’t tell you what happened next, as there are no cameras beyond besides those mounted atop the gate.” She pauses for a moment and tips her head to the side, scouring Castiel down to his soul.</p><p>“All of this for one man?” she asks, voice more curious than judgemental.</p><p>“No,” Castiel corrects swiftly. “All for love.”</p><p>“Brave,” Naomi murmurs, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head as if she can’t understand. “Let’s go.” Placing a hand between Castiel’s shoulder blades, she walks him out of the storage room and down the hall. As they climb the stairwell, Naomi pats his shoulder almost comfortingly, but before she can say anything else, the door at the top of the steps is bursting open, several local police officers silhouetted in the frame.</p><p>“Well, well,” one of them says, a malicious sneer decorating his already ugly face. “If it isn’t the murderer’s boyfriend. So we meet again.” </p><p>Castiel just sighs.</p><p>The police detain him for questioning in one of the rooms the Bay usually uses for processing new inmates into the system. The irony that Castiel is sitting in a chair Dean likely occupied just days prior, and that he might be returning here himself if things continue going south isn’t lost on him at all. </p><p>As it turns out, the cops don’t have much. They have Dean using Castiel’s swipe card to exit his cell, to open Castiel’s office, and to unlock the exterior door after crawling through and dropping down from the ceiling. They have him walking away in plain clothes, presumably picked up in Castiel’s office too.</p><p>Castiel himself watches the available footage with a poker face, nodding and not denying any of the accusations-that-aren’t. <em> Yes, those are his clothes. Yes, he keeps extra sets in his office—his job can be unpredictably messy. Yes, many people can vouch for that. Yes, his badge was missing. Yes, he was aware of that. </em>Castiel cobbles together a story about borrowing Naomi’s ID to go look for where he thought he might have left his own, and the cops’ demeanor seems to shift, increasingly uncertain that they have enough to arrest or even detain him. </p><p>Naomi lurks in the back of the makeshift interrogation room, and to Castiel’s surprise, she disputes nothing. He sees her typing on her phone a couple of times, but beyond that, she simply listens. </p><p>Ultimately, the police can’t hold him. It’s <em> plausible </em>that Dean did steal his badge while they were in session earlier. Whether or not Castiel will cop a charge when the dust settles is another matter altogether, but the cops seem to be leaning towards leaving that as an internal issue for Naomi to deal with. Naomi’s demeanor likely contributes to them assuming it will be handled appropriately and Castiel can’t blame them—she is fairly terrifying when she wants to be.</p><p>So they can’t <em> officially </em> hold him to anything. Despite that, they pressure him. They pressure him to give Dean up, to turn him in. They offer immunity that isn’t theirs to give in exchange for selling Dean out, and they <em> heavily </em>imply that once Dean is caught, everyone in the room knows that Castiel will go down as an accessory. Through it all, Castiel stays straight-backed and tight-lipped and refuses to give anything away.</p><p>They let him go. </p><p>Castiel doesn’t get a moment alone with Naomi before he’s being hustled down to his office to collect his things—suspended pending investigation—and then booted out the door. It’s while he’s strapping his box of personal belongings to the back of his bike that he notices two of the officers not-so-subtly wander out of the prison and get into one of the cop cars. They turn it on and idle in place, clearly watching Castiel go about his business.</p><p><em> Ah, a tail. </em> Castiel probably should have planned for that contingency. They think that he’ll lead them to Dean. Castiel snorts in derision—at the idea that he’s so stupid <em> and </em>that he couldn’t shake those two idiots whenever he wants is laughable. The last car chase these cops have been on was probably a race to the donut shop around closing time.</p><p>As for the rest of the officers, they’re still inside the prison. Strategizing with Naomi and waiting for state police backup. Castiel knows from being involved with the disaster planning that barriers will soon be erected and an expanding perimeter search will begin soon. Still—it feels like they’re in the eye of the storm—calm, even as the sirens blare and the spotlights rotate overhead. In the distance, the sound of a helicopter approaching can be heard.</p><p>It’s all very strange, because everything has changed and yet nothing has at the same time. Beyond all the artificial noise, the wind still blows and the crickets still chirp. The waves crash on the sand and the leaves rustle in the breeze. Castiel takes a last look at the Bay, all of its lights stark against the dark background of the sea and the sky, as he jams his helmet onto his head and stomps the motorcycle to life. </p><p>Without question, he can shake this tail, given a little time and complacency on the officers’ part. He’ll head home for a bit and hope beyond hope that Dean is smart enough not to follow, that he’s long gone out of this town already. Castiel touches his pocket, and with a sinking sensation, realizes that Dean’s phone number is no longer there.</p><p><em> Fuck. </em>He can’t exactly text Naomi, asking for it.</p><p><em> No matter, </em>he thinks. After all, there’s another person in his life who has Dean’s number too—the man who gave him the phone in the first place. Castiel has no idea how Sam is going to feel about his brother being an accused felon on the run or the fact that Castiel is the one who enabled his delinquency in the first place, but they’re all about to find out.</p><p>There’s no indication that Dean is or has been nearby as Castiel maneuvers his bike through the gate and out onto the deserted road leading away from the Bay. No Baby, either, which he hopes is a good sign. Castiel keeps his eyes peeled as the motorcycle roars through the marshy moorlands towards town, but all is dark and quiet, save for the headlights terminally focused on his back. Castiel takes breath after breath of calming, cool ocean air and <em> prays </em> as much as he wonders<em>.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Where are you, Dean?  </em>
</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this town is small and Naomi is a lesbian, who tf is she dating?!</p><p>Next time: A surprising ally or two, TFW is better together, Dean’s fight for his freedom becomes unexpectedly literal when a former nightmare returns in all-too-real life.</p><p>Author note: I'm going on a week-long vacation, and while I expect to have quite a bit of writing time, I'm not promising an update for next week. It was rough getting this one out while prepping for a 16-hour drive!! Hopefully, y'all will forgive me. :) and if I didn't answer your comments yet, it's because it was that or finish the chapter and i figured?!?!</p>
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